Pushing Boundaries Ch. 02

*Elliott*

The woman staring back at me from across the desk wore the kind of polished smile that made my skin crawl. The kind you see at press junkets or high-end car dealerships--shiny, practiced, and full of lies.

Great. One of those.

Fucking Spencer.

If I'd known that jackass planted a talent scout at the open mic, I would've walked out the second she said, "We'd love to talk." But now here I was, trapped in a "chic," modern office while she looked at me like I was something to catalog and sell.

"Mister Martin--"

"Elliott," I cut her off, tight but automatic. "Just... call me Elliott."

"Elliott," she repeated, like we were already friends. "Your cover of Wicked Game was absolutely breathtaking. The bridge? It felt like it was your song, not Chris Isaak's."

A flicker of pride hit me before I could choke it down. I buried it with a shrug.

"It's been picking up on socials," I said, aiming for nonchalant. It felt hollow.

Her eyes lit up, a predatory gleam creeping in around the corners. "Have you considered reaching out to any of your former bandmates?"

My jaw clenched. There it was.

I leaned back in my chair, arms crossing tight across my chest. "Absolutely not."

She didn't flinch. "We'd be happy to mediate on your behalf--"

"I said no."

A pause. Her hand flicked through the folder in front of her--probably a glossy little pitch kit Spencer's nameless, faceless goon had sent over, complete with charts and timelines and god knows what else.

"All the media outlets said the disbanding was amicable," she said, like she was reading from a script. "See? Matt Norick tweeted--"

"I know what he said," I snapped. "And I know what really happened."

She blinked, but the smile didn't budge.

I leaned in, voice low and flat. "They don't like me because I'm gay."

Her polite expression cracked--just a hair.

"Elliott, I don't think anyone in this building would doubt your sexuality."

I stared at her. Was that a compliment? An insult? A warning? Whatever it was, I didn't have time to unpack it, because her phone buzzed. She checked the screen, her mouth twitching into something tighter than a smile.

"Excuse me," she said, pressing the call through. "Savannah Pearson--No, I don't think we'll be needing him after all--No, do not send him up. Alex--!"

*Knock knock knock.*

Too late.

And I knew. Deep in my gut, I fucking knew.

"Miss Pearson," I said, barely keeping my voice even. "Is that Matt?"

Her eyes darted to the door like it had just grown fangs.

"My answer depends on how mad you're going to be."

I laughed--sharp and bitter.

"Are you fucking serious right now?" I muttered, rising from my chair like it might explode under me.

She winced. "Matt's doing well on the charts with Quiet Suffering. He was open to discussing a collaboration--thought it might help get your name back out there."

"And nobody thought to ask if I wanted that?"

Her lips pressed into a thin, rehearsed smile. The door creaked open. And then--

Enter motherfucking Matt Norick.

The man who used to riff beside me on stage. The man who once said we were brothers. The man who couldn't look me in the eye when the press found out I had a boyfriend. I knew that cologne before I saw him. Cheap. Loud. Try-hard. Like him.

He stepped into the room all confidence and false humility, like this was a reunion special and not a trap.

"Elliott!" he grinned, arms out like we were about to hug it out.

I didn't blink.

"Uh oh." His voice was light, joking. "You're not still salty, are you?"

Salty.

Salty???

If I had a dollar for every time someone minimized what he did to me, I'd be able to fund my own tour.

I turned slowly, expression carefully controlled. "I think we're done here."

The words came out flat. Tired. Like I couldn't even summon the energy to be furious anymore.

"Wait a sec, Ell--"

God. That old nickname in his mouth made my skin crawl.

"What do you want?" I snapped, not bothering to hide the venom.

Matt exhaled--an actual sigh, like I was the one being difficult. I swear I saw Savannah wince.

"Still holding a grudge, huh?" he asked, like that was the same as still liking a band he hated.

He stepped closer and placed a hand on my shoulder.

I shook him off so hard I nearly knocked over the damn chair. "Don't touch me."

His smile faltered. "Listen, man, I'm sorry, okay? Is that what you want to hear?"

"No," I said coldly. "Not if it's a lie."

He hesitated. "C'mon. It's been six years. Isn't it time to move on?"

I stared at him, dumbfounded. Then laughed. A halting bark. "You crashed my career, 'man.' Until very fucking recently I worked at a Home Depot, 'man'."

He had the audacity to look smug. Arrogant, posturing bastard. Just like the guy who told me to "keep it discreet" if I wanted the band to stay together.

"Look, you went through a hard time. Got sick--"

That stopped me cold.

I blinked. "Got sick? Is that what you think being gay is?"

His smile wavered. "No, I just meant--"

"No. Don't." My voice shook. "Don't backpedal now."

He opened his mouth. Probably to dig the hole deeper. I didn't let him.

"No," I said again, firmer. "You listen. If a comeback means working with you again? I'll take my rainbow-shitting ass back to retail."

And I left. Didn't wait for a response. Didn't look back. Didn't fucking breathe. I shoved past both of them, throat tight, hands shaking. I didn't realize how bad until I got to the curb and nearly dropped my phone trying to unlock it. Spencer picked up on the first ring.

"Did you know?" I snapped, skipping hello, teeth grinding from how hard I was clenching my jaw.

"About what? Your meeting?"

"About them trying to stick me with fucking Matt Norick?"

A beat of silence.

"Who?"

It sounded genuine. Either he was a world-class liar, or he truly had no clue.

"Matt Norick," I hissed. "One of my old bandmates."

"You've never told me anything about your old band."

"You can Google, can't you?"

A pause.

"I take it, we don't like Matt."

I let out a hard breath. The kind that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. "No."

Spencer must've heard it--the fracture in my voice I didn't mean to show.

"I've got lunch in a few minutes. Come by the office? Shouldn't be far."

I didn't answer right away. Just stared at my reflection in a car window--too pale, too wired, too much.

"Yeah," I muttered. "Text me the address."

"Will do."

He hung up. I stood on the sidewalk a second longer, debating whether I wanted to scream, disappear, or drive off into traffic. Thirty seconds later, his text came through--complete with directions, a parking pin, and a reminder to tell reception I was expected. Typical Spencer. Efficient as fuck. I followed the directions, paid to park, and walked up to the kind of building that looked like it charged you for oxygen.

Reception was a museum of capitalism--polished marble floors, towering white columns, and a goddamn chandelier hanging over the front desk. I walked in and instantly felt like a walking disaster in boots. Piercings, messy hair, tattoos--I wasn't exactly broadcasting "welcome." Behind the desk, a woman with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and nails to match clocked me with the kind of judgment that would've gotten her killed in a mosh pit. She didn't speak right away--just clacked at her keyboard like it owed her money.

"Can I help you?" she finally asked, voice as flat as drywall.

"Yeah. I'm here to see Spencer."

Her brow lifted maybe a millimeter. "Spencer."

"Spencer Briggs," I clarified, keeping my tone even. "He told me to come by. For lunch."

Her lips barely moved. "Mr. Briggs is about to take his lunch."

"Exactly," I said. "That's why I'm here."

She frowned like I'd just asked for the Wi-Fi password to heaven, then hit a button on the phone and set it to speaker. It rang twice before Spencer's voice rolled through--calm, polished, in charge.

"Go ahead."

"Mr. Briggs, there's a gentleman here--" she paused just long enough to make it personal, "--to see you."

"Is it Elliott?"

She blinked, visibly stunned.

I didn't bother hiding my smirk. "Yeah," I said, leaning in just enough to rattle her. "It's me, Spence."

Spencer's voice warmed like someone had flipped a switch. "You can send him up."

"Yes, sir," she replied, now moving slower, and the line went dead.

She didn't look at me as she slid over a visitor card. "Top floor. Last office at the end of the hall. You can't miss it."

I took the card without a word and walked off, fully aware she was already filing me under Spencer's mistake. Let her. Instead of heading straight for the elevator, I ducked into the nearest restroom. I just needed a second. One breath. Maybe I was here to see Spencer--but this was still his world. Suits. Stock portfolios. People who'd take one look at me and wonder what the hell he was doing slumming it.

And Spencer? He wouldn't care. Never had. But I did. Or--maybe not care, exactly--but I didn't want him catching flak just because he liked kissing someone who didn't own a belt without studs on it. I stared at my reflection: messy hair, piercings, tattoos that didn't exactly scream "lunch with a CEO." I adjusted my collar, tried to smooth the piece of hair that always fell in my eyes. I'd gotten it cut recently. Regretted it immediately. Now it just stuck up in weird directions and made me look like I'd rolled out of bed angry. I considered taking the piercings out--but between the ears, eyebrow, and nose, I'd be here all day. Besides, why the fuck should I hide who I am?

I settled for rolling my sleeves down over the heavier ink on my arms. My hands were a lost cause--full sleeves, knuckles, fingers. Tattoos were basically my handshake. The outfit wasn't bad. Button-down tucked into black pants, boots. A little punk, sure, but clean enough to pass. Spencer liked it. Said I looked "badass." Might've said "fuckable," too--but that was another conversation.

By the time I stepped into the elevator, I was half-hyped, half-horrified. My reflection in the chrome doors looked like a guy trying not to bolt. The old woman beside me didn't help--she glared at me over her glasses and wheeled her mail cart like it was some kind of barricade. I resisted the urge to flash her a smile full of teeth.

When the elevator dinged, I stepped out, heart drumming. The hallway was all dark trim and ambient lighting. Sleek. Quiet. Expensive. At the end of it: a black door with a brushed metal placard that read:

S. P. Briggs -- Chief Executive Officer

Because of course it did.

I hesitated. Did I knock? Wait? Pretend to be cool? Before I could do anything, the door swung open.

"I thought I heard the elevator," Spencer said, all smooth confidence and unfairly warm tones. And Jesus fuck, the man was devastating. Dark gray custom suit, silk tie, perfectly tailored like he'd been poured into it by angels with good taste. He looked tall as hell in those polished loafers--brogue heel, naturally. As if six-foot-three needed backup.

I tilted my head up to meet those icy blue eyes, and he was smiling like he already knew he'd won. He pulled me into his office without hesitation, mouth finding mine like he'd been starving. The door slammed behind me, and I was pinned against it--hard, solid wood at my back, and all of Spencer at my front. Normally I might've told him to cool it--reminded him we were in his office. But not today. Today I made a sound I didn't recognize. Helpless. Needy. His mouth swallowed it before I could be embarrassed. My arms looped around his neck without permission. Just instinct. Just need. Like he was gravity, and I was already falling.

"Took you long enough," he growled into my mouth.

"Five blocks. Lunch rush," I panted.

He laughed softly, like that was cute--like I was cute. Then he sank his teeth into my neck and I gasped, clutching at him like he was the only solid thing in the world. Which--for now-- he was. My fingers mapped his body on muscle memory, palms greedy, dragging over his back and hips. He felt like something carved. Like a weapon disguised as a man. He shifted, and the next thing I knew, my feet left the floor.

Then I was on his desk.

Everything scattered--papers, pens, maybe even my dignity--but it didn't matter, because he was between my legs, pressing in like he meant to leave bruises on my bones.

"You--brought me here to fuck me?" I gasped, barely able to breathe between kisses.

He held my jaw like he owned it. Like he was about to crack me open.

"Don't sound so offended," he murmured, brushing his lips over mine, coaxing me into stillness. "We'll get lunch. I just need to fuck you first."

The words short-circuited something in me. God. God, what was wrong with me?

I looked at his desk, at the closed blinds, at the very expensive furniture--and felt my cock twitch like it was answering for me.

"But this is your--your office."

"Exactly." His hands were already under my shirt, untucking it like he'd practiced. Like he'd done this a thousand times. "My office. My company."

Then--lower.

"My pet."

My spine locked.

"You said I could have this ass whenever I wanted," he said, his voice low, amused, and utterly terrifying. His hands cupped my ass like he had the deed to it.

"Shit," I gasped, hips jerking forward. "Here?" I tried again, already breathless.

"Do you have a problem with that?"

"I--won't people hear--?"

He leaned in, mouth hovering just behind my ear. His hand slid into my hair, the other clamped around my neck.

"They might hear you scream."

I whimpered. Couldn't help it. Then he stepped back and began undoing his belt.

"Turn around."

My body moved before my brain could catch up. I braced myself against the desk. Bent over like a fucking offering. A sharp slap rang out, and I jolted, breath catching. Another, through my briefs. My knees shook. My cock was already dripping.

"This ass is mine, isn't it, pet?" he purred, voice molten, dangerous.

The word hit me like a shockwave. I swallowed it. Choked on it.

"Yours," I whispered, ashamed of how true it was.

"What was that?"

He grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked. My back arched. My throat bared.

"Yours," I hissed, right as another slap landed and sent fire racing through me.

"Always." His voice was thick with pride.

Then he shoved my shirt up and peeled down my briefs, slow enough to make me shiver. I heard the crinkle of a wrapper. The snap of a lube cap. Then his fingers--slick and fast--worked into me without mercy. My body clenched, desperate and frantic. There wasn't a fucking second wasted. Suddenly, the head of his cock pressed against me, thick and hot and unrelenting.

"Fuck, Spence--" I started, but then he was inside, and I couldn't speak.

I couldn't do anything but gasp and claw at the desk as he sank deeper and deeper, every inch dragging fire through my spine. Then he started to move. Not sweet. Not slow. Just hard. Unapologetic.

He grabbed my jaw and kissed me sideways, filthy and punishing, then shoved me flat so I had no leverage, no control. Only him. Only this. His thrusts hit deep. Sharp. Relentless. Like he wanted to brand me with his cock. The desk shook. My hands slipped. I was drooling into my arm and too far gone to care.

Every sound he made--those low, gritted groans, the muttered curses--poured into my bloodstream like a drug. My vision frayed at the edges. My thighs trembled. My body was a live wire. He angled his hips and hit something inside me that made my entire soul claw for purchase. I sobbed.

"Fuck, Spence--fuck--I'm--"

"Don't," he snapped, pounding into me harder.

I bit my arm and screamed. Then he fisted my hair, yanked my head back, and that pain--that pleasure--shattered me. I came so hard I almost blacked out. Spencer cursed, thrusting wild and desperate until he groaned into my shoulder, teeth biting down hard enough to leave a mark no shirt could cover. He stayed like that, locked to me. Breathing heavy. Arms around me like I might disappear.

And I almost did.

My pulse was still pounding in my ears, breath coming in shallow, shaking gasps. My body had gone soft--boneless--but Spencer hadn't let go. He was still inside me.

Still hard.

Still fucking hard.

"Jesus," I whimpered. "You--how--"

"Don't move," he murmured. Voice low. Calm. Like I hadn't just come harder than I had in my life. Like he didn't just wreck me against his desk in the middle of a Tuesday.

My hands scrambled for the edge of the wood, the only thing tethering me to reality. Spencer's hands smoothed down my back, almost gentle now, like he was soothing me just enough to keep me pliant. His cock twitched inside me. I made a wrecked sound--somewhere between a sob and a moan.

"You can take more," he whispered. "I know you can."

I shook my head, useless. "Spence--"

"Shh."

His hands gripped my waist, and the next thrust was slower. Deeper. Measured in a way that made me see stars. The edge of the desk pressed into my hips. Bruising. My skin was hypersensitive. Every drag of his cock lit me up all over again.

"You feel that?" he murmured, rocking his hips again.

"Yes," I was practically crying now. My voice was wrecked.

"That's your body begging. You're still open for me. Still aching for it."

I whimpered. "I came--"

"And I'm not done."

The words were a vice around my ribs. I couldn't breathe. Didn't want to. My brain was static. I wasn't sure who I was anymore. Just that I was his. He shifted again, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. I saw white.

"Fuck--fuck, Spencer--please--"

"What do you need?" he asked, breath hot against my neck. "Tell me."

"I--I don't know," I moaned. "You--please--anything--"

"That's better," he growled. "My pretty boy doesn't have to think. Just feel."

God, I was so far gone. Every word made my cock twitch again. I didn't even care how overstimulated I was. I needed him. Deeper. Rougher. Everything.

"I love watching you fall apart," he whispered, lips dragging along my spine. "Every time you break for me. Every time you come and still beg for more."

I gasped, a full-body shiver wracking through me.

"You want to come again?" he asked. His voice was close to cruel. Close to kind. "I'll let you. But you'll have to ask nicely."

"Please," I choked out, humiliatingly fast. "Please, Spence--I need it, I need--"

His thrusts picked up, deliberate again. Focused. Like he was fucking the words out of me.

"Say you're mine."

"I'm yours," I gasped, raw and desperate.

"Again."

"Yours--fuck--Spencer--please, I'm yours--"

"That's my boy," he murmured, right before he hit the perfect angle again.

And this time, I screamed.

The second orgasm hit me like a freight train, full-body and bone-deep. My vision shattered. My legs buckled. Spencer held me through it, groaning against my shoulder as he followed, his grip bruising, mouth open on my skin. And then--

Silence.

Our breath. The sound of my pulse crashing in my ears. The wreckage of what we were. I didn't move. Couldn't. And even if I could... I wouldn't have dared.

"Holy fuck," I whispered. Or maybe I just thought it. My voice barely worked. My mouth was dry, lips swollen. My body wasn't mine anymore--it was a puppet strung together with overstimulated nerves and loose limbs. Spencer chuckled behind me, smug and sated. His fingers swept the damp hair from my forehead like I was something fragile. Precious.

"Are you alive?" he asked, the question low and amused.

I shook my head, leaning all my weight against him. My legs were jelly, my spine liquid. "No. You've killed me."

That earned a pleased, satisfied laugh--low and genuine--and then his arms tightened. One second I was draped over his desk, the next I was in the air, dazed and weightless as he carried me to the leather couch. I landed with a graceless thud, limbs folding awkwardly beneath me. I didn't even try to move. Couldn't. I lay there blinking at the ceiling, wrecked in every way that counted--heart racing, muscles trembling, breath shallow. I felt ruined. Used. Cherished. Somehow all three.

That last part scared me most.

Across the room, Spencer was already smoothing his shirt, refastening his watch. Reassembling himself like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just stripped me bare and looked right through me. Like he hadn't made me feel like I was something worth keeping.

I peeled myself off the couch and dragged myself to the bathroom. My limbs ached in ways that had nothing to do with sex. The mirror was merciless. Cheeks flushed. Lips red. Pupils blown. Tear tracks faint on my skin. I looked like I'd been kissed open--ruined with intention. I looked... happy. Or close to it. And that, somehow, was the most disorienting part. I wasn't used to being seen. Not like this. Not without armor. Not without terms and exit strategies.

I splashed cold water on my face and exhaled a shaky breath.

The bite on my shoulder was already blooming--deep violet above the collarbone. I touched it gently, flinching. It was a mark, sure. But it felt like more than that. A claim. Not just on my body, but on something I hadn't meant to offer up.

Spencer had said he loved me.

I hadn't said it back.

I wasn't sure I could. Not yet. Not without it feeling like a promise I wasn't ready to make. And that made me feel cruel, even though I didn't mean to be. I felt something. Of course I did. Something wild and huge and terrifying. But saying it made it real. Saying it made it dangerous.

When I stepped out of the bathroom, Spencer was back in full form: blazer buttoned, tie sharp, cufflinks gleaming. Untouchable. Like I hadn't just been trembling in his arms, half-breaking apart beneath him. The contrast made my throat tighten. I was still flushed. Collar askew. His mouth haunted my skin. My shoulder throbbed where he'd branded me like a secret I couldn't explain. And he looked like he hadn't even broken a sweat. Except--his jaw was tight.

His gaze cut to the door just as the knock sounded.

"Sir," came a clipped voice. "Mr. Stevens from Fisk Developments is on line two. He's insisting on speaking with you directly."

Spencer didn't miss a beat. "Thank you, Arnold," he said, smooth as ever.

And just like that, the man who'd held me down and made me feel everything I'd spent years trying not to feel was gone--replaced by the CEO. Controlled. Commanding. Composed. But then he looked at me.

And melted.

The steel softened. His gaze gentled. In a few measured strides, he was in front of me again, hand cupping my face like I was fragile and he knew it. His mouth brushed against mine--soft this time. No fire. No hunger. Just something quieter. Steadier. Possessive in a different way. Like he was claiming me all over again... and asking for nothing. When he pulled back, his thumb lingered at the corner of my mouth. Wiping something away. Or just grounding me.

"Give me a couple minutes to handle this?" he murmured.

I nodded, throat too tight to speak. He turned, straightening his jacket, every movement deliberate. Controlled. Like the chaos of ten minutes ago had never happened.

I stood there like an idiot, watching Spencer slide into that tall-backed chair like he was born in it. I had no idea how he'd managed to reassemble his space so quickly. His desk--our desk now, apparently--looked freshly rebuilt. The shine on the wood was too smug, too polished, too clean, like even it knew it had seen some shit but definitely didn't want to talk about it. He leaned back, legs crossed, cufflinks catching the light just so. He pressed the line two button without hesitation.

"Mr. Stevens!" he said brightly, all cheer and charm. "How are you?"

And just like that, it was like watching someone I didn't even know step into his skin. Spencer--my Spencer--was gone. No teasing, no growl, no warm hands curling around my throat and making me feel like the center of the universe. This guy? This guy was a fucking shark in a suit. A very expensive suit. A very well-fitted suit. Fuck, he looked good. I felt like I was watching a nature documentary: "Here we see the silver-tongued apex predator in his natural habitat, preparing to eviscerate his prey over speakerphone. "

The line crackled and then exploded with yelling.

"Your people have driven Morelli out of Southside! Just who the hell do you think you are, Briggs?!"

I blinked.

Was this business?

Or The Godfather?

Spencer didn't even flinch. The fucker reclined deeper, calm as a glacier.

"Is this about the waterfront property near Red Peak?" he asked, like they were talking about brunch reservations.

"It's about you trampling all over everyone's plans just to show off, you self-obsessed bastard!"

I should probably be worried. I was in the room. With him. And whoever the hell this Mr. Stevens was, he sounded like the type who'd burn your house down over a parking dispute. But Spencer just tilted his head, half-amused.

"I'm not showing off, Mr. Stevens. Just thinking strategically."

Strategically. Uh-huh. Strategic, like my ass over his desk ten minutes ago?

"You don't have the manpower to hold that property. Nikolaev's gonna sweep in, and when he does, that puts him right on my border!"

I officially had no idea what the hell was going on. Borders? Manpower? Was Spencer in real estate or organized fucking crime? And more importantly: did it matter? Because there was a new itch crawling up the back of my neck now. Something cold. Uneasy. The man I'd just let touch every part of me--did I actually know him? Or just the version he let me see?

He'd kissed me like he meant it. Held me like I was breakable. Told me I was his.

But this? This was something else entirely. And for the first time, a quiet voice in the back of my head whispered: "What exactly have you gotten yourself into, Elliott?"

I should've sat down. My knees were suddenly made of Jello.

"They were selling to the highest bidder," Spencer said smoothly. "Could've been yours--if you'd wanted it."

Stevens made a sound like he was either choking or combusting.

"Stop playing games with me, asshole."

"I'm not provoking," Spencer replied, and his voice dropped into something low and deadly. "I'm protecting what's mine."

I stiffened.

Okay. Okay. That did things to me.

Terrible, horny, confusing things.

I had no clue if he meant the property or me or both, but either way, my stomach flipped. My skin prickled. My brain started short-circuiting like a badly wired toaster.

There was a second of silence. Not from the phone--that guy was still ranting--but from me. I was frozen. Watching. Processing. Melting into some fucked-up cocktail of fear and arousal I did not have the time or therapy for.

What. The fuck.

Was Spencer mafia?

No. No, surely not.

... I mean. He could be.

He did own like four watches that cost more than my car. And that voice--Jesus. That voice was doing something criminal to my sanity. I gripped the back of the leather couch like it might anchor me to reality. Spoiler: it didn't. And all I could think--like a total dumbass--was: How is it even possible that he looks hotter right now?

I was so completely, dangerously fucked.

But the part that scared me wasn't the suit, or the money, or even the threat curled in his voice. It was how easy it was--how natural he seemed. Like this was the real him. And if it was... what did that say about me?

"Bullshit," Stevens barked, practically foaming now. "I'm not an idiot. I'll double your offer."

Spencer's chuckle was low, indulgent. Dangerous. "Triple it and we have a deal."

"You've got to be kidding."

"Never been good at comedy," Spencer said breezily. "I'm interested in the property--not making any friends."

Somewhere on the other end, it sounded like Stevens choked on his own blood pressure.

"You son of a bitch. Four million."

Spencer's smile sharpened. It was faint, but it was there--dark and satisfied like he'd just checkmated someone three turns ago.

"Oh no, no, Mr. Stevens," he purred. "Four million is insulting. Five."

"You smug motherfucker."

"You're repeating yourself," Spencer said, tone bored. "Five."

"You're bleeding me dry."

"Then drip."

A beat.

"FINE! FIVE MILLION!"

Spencer didn't flinch. Didn't gloat. Just said, "Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Stevens," and hung up without waiting for a goodbye.

The line went dead. And so did I. I just stood there, my jaw probably halfway to the carpet. This man. This terrifying, manipulative, calculating fucker. For a second, everything froze. The world went quiet. My lungs forgot how to function. Then he leaned back in that leather chair like he owned the entire goddamn planet, a slow, smug smile sliding into place, his cheekbones flushed with the thrill of the kill. And I had the audacity to find it hot. No one should look that pleased after emotionally--and financially-- skinning someone alive.

"You sound like a fucking supervillain," I said flatly, still trying to restart my heartbeat.

Spencer's grin widened like I'd just handed him a trophy. "I didn't even pay a million for that property."

Jesus Christ.

"What the hell would you have done if Stevens didn't cave?"

He shrugged one elegant shoulder. "Sold it to the enemy. Let them think they'd won. Then I'd cut them off at the pass, flank their holdings, and drive them out before they even knew what hit them."

He said it like he was describing a chess match. Or a bloodless coup.

"Why does that sound like war?"

His eyes glittered. "Because, pet, it is."

My mouth opened. Closed. My brain blue-screened.

"I swear to god," I muttered, dragging both hands down my face, "I thought you were gonna tell me you were a drug lord."

"Would that be a dealbreaker?" he asked, smirking.

I stared at him. "If it wasn't, does that make me a terrible person?"

He laughed--loud, delighted. "Look at you. Slumming it."

"If you're the villain," I said, still reeling, "what does that make me?"

"My sidekick?" he offered, all false innocence. "Or my underling." His voice dropped. "I'd like that."

I rolled my eyes so hard I almost fell over. "Excuse you. I was a fucking rock star."

"Yes, you were," he said, all low reverence. "And you will be again. That won't make you any less mine."

There it was again--that possessive lilt that should've pissed me off. Should've sent me running. Instead? It made my toes curl. Jesus Christ. I was so far gone.

"So..." I said, clearing my throat and trying very hard not to jump him again, "Lunch?"

His smile turned downright sinful. "Only if you're not too sore to sit."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Spencer*

I took Elliott to a quaint little café across the street. It didn't look like much--narrow doorway, flickering neon sign, one too many flowerpots someone had clearly given up on--but they served the best Monte Cristo this side of the state, and I liked watching people underestimate it.

Elliott hadn't looked me in the eye since we left my office. Still pink in the cheeks, posture all wrong--like he didn't know how to sit in his own skin. His hair was a mess from my hands, his collar half-hiding a mark I was pretty sure had teeth in it. I'd seen him undone before--plenty of times--but this quiet, embarrassed version of him? That was new. Not ashamed. Just shy.

And it was devastating.

He ordered without looking up, barely sparing a glance at the ancient woman behind the counter giving us the kind of look that usually came with a clutching of pearls. I was about to make a snide comment about her blessed rosary beads when I felt it: Elliott's hand slid into mine.

No fanfare. No eye contact. Just the soft, unsure press of fingers threading through mine, like he might pull away at any second. I didn't let him. I didn't squeeze back. Didn't make it a thing. Just let him have the silence and the safety. Let him rebuild himself one shaky piece at a time.

Elliott was the most complicated man I'd ever met. He fought happiness like it was a trap. Like the second he let himself want something, the universe would notice and rip it away just to punish him for hoping. I didn't blame him. Not really. People had done a number on him. But I had no interest in being people.

I was, however, interested in the man he'd mentioned earlier. Matt Norick.

Or more specifically: Matthew Wayne Norick. Age 31. Son of Richard and Jennifer Norick. Grew up on the east side. Graduated from the same high school as Elliott. They'd started a band in junior year, did a few shows at local venues, broke out online not long after graduation.

Long-term friendship turned sour.

I didn't have all the details--not yet--but I'd seen enough in thirty minutes of digging to know one thing: that prick had nearly driven Elliott to tears just by showing up. That earned him the top slot on my shit list. No one wanted to be on my shit list. That usually didn't end well.

We settled into a corner booth beneath a sun-faded mural and a painted window that promised daily deals no one had updated in years. I stuck the little table flag in the holder--#4--and tried very hard not to laugh at Elliott's expression. He sat. Paused. Winced. His eyebrows shot up like he'd just sat on a spike.

"You. Suck," he hissed, shooting me a glare that might've worked if his ears weren't still pink.

I tilted my head, feigning confusion. "Yes?"

"You did that on purpose."

I considered it. "I may have."

"You definitely did."

I gave a one-shouldered shrug. Unrepentant. Maybe even proud. He muttered something colorful under his breath and shifted again, trying--and failing--to find a seating position that didn't scream just got railed into a desk by a menace in a tailored suit. I sipped my water like a man completely at peace with the world.

The café bustled around us. A businessman barked at his laptop like it owed him money. A family in the corner argued over marinara versus alfredo. None of them had a clue what we'd just done. But I did. And clearly, so did Elliott. He gave up trying to get comfortable, crossing his arms with a scowl and blowing his bangs out of his eyes like a grumpy teenager.

I reached across the table, fingers brushing his wrist. His shoulders tensed--then eased, just a little. Like he'd been holding his breath and didn't even know it.

"Now," I said quietly, "tell me about Matt."

He blinked, like he'd forgotten who the hell that even was. Good. That was the idea. But then recognition crept back in. So did the scowl.

I didn't press. Elliott wasn't the kind of man you pushed. You gave him space and waited for the storm to pass. Or braced yourself to be in its path.

"It's stupid, I guess. It's been six years. Maybe I am being too salty," he muttered after a moment, eyes darting away.

"Doubtful," I replied casually, like I hadn't already decided I'd make Matt regret ever opening his mouth in Elliott's direction. "What did he do?"

Elliott's gaze dropped to his hands -- tattooed knuckles locked together like he was holding something back physically. He was unraveling in real time, and I felt a sick kind of privilege watching him trust me with it.

"He was my best friend for a long time. We started Beneath the Carnage--" He cut himself off, catching my expression. "Don't judge me. We were sixteen."

I smirked. "It's creative."

He rolled his eyes. "We started the band in his garage. Got fake IDs to do shitty acoustic sets at dive bars. Slowly built a full lineup, and by twenty we had a real thing going. Record deal, touring, decent exposure."

There was weight behind the words. Like it had been his whole world. Like he still grieved it.

"Where is this bastard now?" I asked, keeping my tone light. Barely.

Elliott's jaw tensed. "He's the frontman of Quiet Suffering. Still climbing. I try not to pay attention."

I didn't speak. I let the silence invite more.

"We toured a couple years. Released an album that blew up more than we expected. Things were good. I thought..." He stopped, exhaled like he'd been holding something in for years. "Then I met Isaac."

The name stung more than it should have. He caught the shift in my face -- of course he did. "Don't go getting all jealous. This is in the past, okay? You asked."

I nodded, but it was a slow, deliberate motion. Because I had asked. Because I wanted to know. I wanted to understand the wounds I hadn't caused, even if they bled on me anyway. Still, I hated the name Isaac already.

"We met after a show," Elliott continued. "Everyone else had gone back to the hotel, but I stuck around. There was this gay bar a few blocks from the venue, and I wanted to check it out."

"Of course," I said, my voice even, though I could feel the tight coil of jealousy winding behind my ribs. Touring. Lonely. Fanbase flirting with groupie lines. Of course. He was gorgeous. Of course someone would want him. But the idea of him choosing someone else...

He shrugged. "Isaac was a fan. I was... still full of myself."

I let out a small hum. Didn't trust myself to say more without sounding territorial.

"Spencer," he warned.

"I said it's fine," I replied, forcing a smile. "Really."

He didn't buy it, not fully. He watched me for another beat, like he was gauging just how well I was faking it. Whatever he saw must've been good enough, because he pressed on.

"We hit it off. Stayed in touch." His tone faltered. "More than that, really."

The hesitation in his voice was subtle, but it lit up every nerve in my spine. Like he wasn't just uncertain about telling me -- he was uncertain about what it still meant. I nodded slowly, keeping my expression neutral even as my thoughts darkened. This was the part where I'd need to be careful. Gentle. But not so gentle that I felt passive. He didn't need a doormat. He needed someone who could take what he gave and hand it back steadier.

He slouched deeper into the booth like the cushions might swallow him if he tried hard enough. "It's not like I was in the closet or anything. The band knew... but they also knew I couldn't hold a relationship to save my life, so it never really came up."

I tapped my thumb against the edge of the table, trying to ignore the mental image forming--Elliott, tangled up with someone else. Someone who wasn't me. It wasn't even jealousy. Not really. It was fury. That anyone else had touched him and left a scar.

"And then?" I prompted, my voice carefully even.

He shrugged. "Isaac came out for a few shows, and we'd meet up. I didn't think anything of it--until we were out at dinner one night and one of those vultures with a press badge recognized me. Snapped a few photos of us together."

His jaw tightened. He glanced out the window, eyes distant. "We weren't even that serious. I mean, most people didn't give a shit. But the ones who did?" He exhaled sharply. "They were fucking loud."

Something cold curled in the pit of my stomach. I knew that kind of loud. Knew how it echoed long after the noise faded.

"What happened?" I asked, even though I already had an idea.

"At our next show, someone threw a beer at me and called me a fag," Elliott said flatly. No emotion, no embellishment. Just fact. "Just a nice little show of support."

My hand curled into a fist under the table. I wanted to hunt that bastard down. Drag him back through every memory Elliott was now trying to tell without flinching.

"Our manager tried to keep it quiet. Said it would 'blow over.' But the views started tanking. The label threatened to pull the budget for the next album."

His laugh was short and bitter. "So, Matt asked me to step down."

I stared at him. Step down? The rage that hit me was immediate and hot, like being splashed in the face with boiling water.

"What a fucking coward," I snapped.

Elliott still didn't look at me. He just gave a little shrug, like maybe he'd already burned out all the feelings that came with it. "He was trying to save the band," he said softly. "I see that now."

I blinked. "Are you defending him?"

Another shrug. "He said I wasn't 'fitting the vibe.'" He added finger quotes, and somehow that managed to be both hilarious and deeply, deeply sad. "Next thing I know, he's told the others about Isaac, and suddenly I'm a ghost in my own band."

"So, you left," I said. My voice had turned to gravel. I could feel the heat behind my eyes.

That bitter smile returned to his face. "Not without a lot of yelling. A couple fists got involved."

I didn't ask who threw the first punch. I already knew.

"I had a few months to plan. Disappeared after the tour and didn't look back."

"And Isaac?" I asked, already suspecting the answer.

Elliott let out a dry, humorless breath. "Ghosted me the second things went sideways."

I closed my eyes briefly. Selfish fucking prick. He'd carved Elliott open, let the world bleed him dry, and then walked away without so much as a goodbye. Left him to clean up the mess alone. And still, somehow, Elliott was blaming himself. Brushing off the trauma with weak jokes and shoulder shrugs like it hadn't broken something vital inside him.

I looked at him--really looked--and felt something inside me harden. He didn't need my pity. He needed a goddamn sword in his hand and someone at his back willing to raze the earth in his name. And if he'd let me? I'd be that man.

"The worst part?" Elliott leaned back with a hollow creak of vinyl, eyes unfocused. "They didn't even say my name. Just scrubbed me from existence like I was some goddamn mistake."

I waited. Let him have space. But that didn't stop the way something twisted in my gut.

"They rebranded the whole damn thing. New band name. New frontman. Wiped the socials, the press, everything. Like I was never part of it. Like none of it ever happened." His jaw clenched. "Someone else got to sing my songs, Spence. My words. My voice. And they acted like I never fucking existed."

It landed like a punch.

"You didn't sue?" I asked softly, already knowing the answer.

He gave a dry laugh. "Do I look like I could afford a lawyer? I was couch surfing and trying not to drink myself to death."

I stared at him, hard. "You can now."

"Spencer--"

"I'm not pushing." I held up a hand. "But I'm not kidding either. If you want to go for the throat, I'll put together a team by tomorrow."

"It's been years," he muttered, looking away. "Feels like old wounds. Who cares anymore?"

"I do."

His eyes flicked back to me, startled. A beat of silence passed.

"Matt Norick didn't just hurt you, Elliott. He humiliated you. He tried to erase you. You didn't get closure. You got buried."

Elliott's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Yeah. Well. I tried to go solo after all that. But the wind was already knocked out of me. I couldn't get traction. The stuff I did put out flopped. I was angry, drinking too much, and feeling sorry for myself. You met me during the death rattle of that phase."

And still, even then, he'd been magnetic. Fragile in ways he pretended weren't there. Brilliant in ways he didn't believe in anymore.

"And now Matt wants to collaborate?"

Elliott nodded, then made a face like he'd swallowed battery acid.

My blood boiled. "Un-fucking-believable."

But before I could launch into a tirade that would absolutely derail lunch, a darker, quieter thought slipped in like smoke under a door.

"Well," I said, voice cooling into something low and deliberate. Predatory. "We should think about this. Carefully."

Elliott raised a brow, wary. "What's going on in that sinister head of yours?"

"Improvised justice."

"Oh boy." But he didn't look away.

A quiet stretched between us. This time, it felt like strategy.

"You should do it," I said at last, like I was offering a cigarette before a heist.

His eyes widened. "Are you fucking serious right now?"

"Completely." I leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping into something closer to a dare. "He screwed you. Publicly. If you collaborate--if you make it work--you erase every ounce of control he thought he had. You turn his success into a monument of what he lost when he betrayed you."

Elliott stared, mouth parted like he didn't quite know how to argue with that.

"You're being so petty," he said, but there was a new note in his voice. Amused. Intrigued. Tempted.

"I'm being an opportunist," I corrected, matter-of-fact. "Don't you want to stick it to them? Prove how untouchable you are now that you've got your power back?"

"Power..." His gaze flicked to mine. "Or you?"

I smirked. "What's the difference?"

Before he could answer, our food arrived--thank god. His Cubano was set down in front of him like a holy relic, and the way his expression shifted--pure, childlike joy--nearly undid me. Some of the weight left his shoulders. Just enough.

I didn't give him more than a second to settle. "Look, Matt's still a piece of shit--but that doesn't mean you can't squeeze some value out of him. Cozy up to his network, charm his producers, hijack his stage--and then pull the rug out from under his sorry ass."

Elliott let out a snort of reluctant laughter. "You really are a fucking supervillain."

"You say that like it's an insult."

He took a bite, then actually moaned. Low, involuntary, obscene enough to make me shift in my seat.

"Jesus," he breathed. "I don't think I've eaten today."

"Shameful," I muttered, picking up my own sandwich. Honestly? Half the reason the man's still alive is the strategic stash of protein bars I've hidden around the house like he's some kind of endangered animal.

He chewed, swallowed, then said, "Say I do this. Say I agree to a collab. What's the end game?"

I leaned back, eyes steady. "To prove you don't need their approval. To show them they tried to break you--and failed. You may've lost a battle, but you're here to win the fucking war."

He tilted his head, skeptical. "That's very anime of you."

"I do like Frieza."

"Of course you do." He gave me the side-eye, but I caught the curve of a smile. Victory.

"I'll think about it," he added, almost reluctantly. "This whole Matt thing... it's probably a good move."

"Trust me," I said, softer now. "But don't trust him."

He hummed, and the tension that had strangled the beginning of this conversation unraveled by a thread. I watched him take another bite, shoulders easing, appetite returning like the tide. And I realized something with bone-deep certainty: This--right here--was how I wanted to spend my life. Not plotting Matt Norick's downfall--though, yeah, that was a juicy bonus--but watching Elliott remember who the fuck he was.

Then a thought struck.

"By the way, did I mention I scheduled a photo op for Thursday?"

Elliott's eyes narrowed. "For what?"

"You."

A wadded-up napkin hit me square in the face.

I peeled it off slowly. "Knock it off," I said, chuckling as I lobbed it back. "It's low stakes. Just a few photos. You've done shoots before."

"To promote BTC," he shot back, already scowling. "Not myself."

"Now we're promoting you." My smile was maddening on purpose.

"I appreciate the gesture," he said, slipping into that fake professional tone he always used when he was trying to act like he had control. "But that's not necessary."

The professionalism was dulled by the simple fact: he had mustard on his chin.

I leaned across the table and gently dabbed it away with my napkin. He blinked, stunned--and then flushed, that perfect blush rushing up his pale cheeks like he'd short-circuited. His body froze like his brain forgot how to function. God, he was adorable. So full of fire, but melt-in-your-mouth when caught off guard.

"I'd like to be in a few shots with you," I added casually. "Kickstart your return with a bang. Unapologetically queer."

I sat back and gestured grandly, sliding into my most theatrical persona: Spencer Briggs, businessman and unrepentant romantic menace. Elliott stared at me like I'd sprouted antlers. Like he couldn't quite compute what I'd just said. Public. With me. That was no small ask. Not for him.

What I didn't say: it was Rolling Stone.

What I didn't say: there was an interview lined up.

What I didn't say: I paid enough to make them very interested in Elliott Martin's comeback.

He didn't need to know all that yet.

"Sink or swim, pretty boy," I added, voice low.

He just sat there, red-faced, mouth slightly open like he was a breath away from arguing--or kissing me. His eyes--big, honey-gold and so damn earnest--searched mine for something I didn't know how to name.

"Come on," I teased. "There'll be food."

He closed his mouth slowly, blinked, then nodded like he was rebooting. The tension bled from his shoulders, and his lips curved into something reluctant but undeniably fond.

"Fine, fine. I'll do it." He wiped his face with a napkin, then pointed it at me accusingly. "But I'm not gonna be happy about it."

"God forbid anyone see the big, bad rock star enjoying himself," I murmured.

He choked on his drink and turned away, coughing dramatically. Adorable gremlin. But even as he played it off, I saw it--the flicker of fear, the edge of doubt still curled at the corners of his smile. He was bracing for impact. Bracing for the world to punch him the second he stepped into the light. But he trusted me to walk into that light with him. He was still pretending. Still telling himself he could survive it if he didn't get too soft, too open, too hopeful.

I'd show him that he didn't have to pretend.

Not with me.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Elliott*

I was going to murder Spencer Briggs.

Not metaphorically. Full-on, first-degree, smother-him-with-a-pillow or lace-his-fucking-protein-powder type of murder. He said photo op. He did not say photo op with Rolling Stone. And he definitely didn't mention there'd be a goddamn interview. Some warning would've been nice. The second I saw their logo on the sign-in sheet, I nearly bolted.

"Hey, hey, hey," Spencer purred, catching my arm. We were standing like absolute assholes in the middle of the hallway outside the studio--me vibrating with panic, him looking like he ran the goddamn place.

"I thought we were taking a couple cute shots," I hissed. "Like... some guy with a camera and a sandwich."

"All you're doing is having a few photos taken," he said, like I hadn't just spotted three security guards and what looked like someone with a boom mic.

"By Rolling Stone," I snapped. "I'm not even wearing concealer."

Spencer looked amused. Of course he did. "You're a musical icon, sweetheart."

"No."

"Face it," he said, gesturing like he was presenting me to the gods. "You're gorgeous. You've got a tragic fall-from-grace story, mysterious vanishing act, and now you're back from the dead with cheekbones that could end wars. The world wants to know what happened."

"Stop talking."

"I can't believe no one's snapped you up," he added, mock-offended. "Idiots."

"You're sweet. Stop."

"Elliott--"

"Mr. Martin?"

A tiny blonde woman appeared like she'd apparated straight out of a PR dream. She was holding a clipboard like it was her emotional support animal and beaming like this was the best day of her life.

"The stylist is ready for you."

I blinked. "The what now?"

"Stylist," she repeated brightly, gesturing toward a woman leaning against the wall nearby. Short hair, perfectly tousled. Killer boots. Expression like she had exactly three fucks left and none were for me. Her eyes raked over me from head to toe in one slow, clinical pass. My spine locked up on instinct. I braced for the inevitable.

"I can work with that," she said, with the kind of bored English drawl that made me feel like a before picture.

Then she turned and walked away. And I followed her. Like the dumbstruck, spiraling, media-damned idiot I apparently was.

"They told me you were a metal artist?" she asked, guiding me into what I assumed was a dressing room. Realistically, it felt more like a fashion dungeon. Black walls. A vanity mirror rimmed with Hollywood lights. A rack of clothes that could double as a barricade. For someone so tiny, she had an alarmingly dramatic vision.

"Sort of?" I answered. Was I a metal artist? Formerly? Emotionally? How did one define an artist after a public implosion?

"Originally," I added, already spiraling.

She glanced over her shoulder with a look I couldn't decipher. "I figured we'd keep the edgy, punk-slash-rebel vibe when I pulled wardrobe, but I've got backups."

"Works for me." I shrugged helplessly. "I don't even really know what's happening."

"Oh, you've fallen under Mr. Briggs' spell," she said with a wink.

I snorted. Slumped lower into the makeup chair. That wasn't inaccurate.

"Don't worry, dear," she said, flippant and fanged. "It's a great look. Sexy, rocker rebel rises from the ashes with the city's most eligible billionaire?" She placed a hand over her heart like she was reading me a love sonnet. "That's practically Pulitzer material."

"Killer headline," I muttered, staring blankly into the mirror like I was waiting for it to shatter.

She chuckled and set to work.

Apparently, they wanted to lean all the way into the queer aesthetic--black skinny jeans (tight enough to kill circulation), a shredded black crop top that exposed my stomach, and combat boots that could double as medieval weaponry. I looked like I'd been kicked out of a vampire cult for being too dramatic.

"I like this one," she said, tapping a tattoo of a raven mid-flight across my ribs. Then she leaned closer and raised a brow. "Oh. And this one." She gently spun me to face the mirror.

She was pointing at the bruises on my shoulder.

Oh.

Oh no.

I'd forgotten about the hickeys. About Spencer's complete and utter lack of self-restraint. I watched my own face go crimson. It climbed fast--cheeks, ears, neck.

"Relax, love," she laughed. "That's what concealer's for."

Which, apparently, meant thirty minutes of being airbrushed within an inch of my life. She muttered something about "road rash," which I guess was code for Spencer fucked me so hard it left a GPS trail. By the time she was done, another person--maybe a hairstylist, maybe a wizard--showed up to tackle my curls. I heard them curse under their breath more than once.

When they finally stepped back, I braced myself and turned to the mirror again.

I didn't look that different... not really. More fashionable. Darker, maybe. Bolder. The black eyeliner was sharp enough to murder. My cheekbones looked weaponized. I wasn't sure if that was contouring or sorcery. I still looked like me. Just... a version of me that might punch a paparazzo, kiss a man in front of a crowd, and tell the industry that shoved me out to go fuck itself.

And weirdly? I didn't hate it.

Cool. But definitely gay.

I could live with that.

With that, I was shoved out into the main studio--stark white walls, massive steel beams, and enough cables to trip a horse. Half the lights were dimmed, and a skeleton crew scurried like caffeinated ants across the space. And right in the middle of it all?

Spencer. Fucking. Briggs.

Apparently, a stylist had gotten their hands on him too.

I froze for a second, drinking him in. He was sprawled in a director's chair like he owned gravity, all long limbs and expensive tailoring. His chestnut hair was swept back perfectly, and the scruff lining his jaw was trimmed within a millimeter of its life. He looked like a Calvin Klein billboard come to life--elegant, smug, untouchably hot.

He was deep in conversation with someone half-draped in a headset, lounging like he'd never known the word "awkward." One leg crossed over the other, easy smile, no fidgeting. Just effortless dominance. How? How did he make this look easy? Because me? I felt like a toddler in a mosh pit. Exposed, underdressed, and one sarcastic comment away from a full breakdown.

The production assistant peeled away from her conversation with Spencer and strode over, headset wire trailing behind her like a tangle of snakes. She looked me over once--slow, deliberate--and then smiled like she'd just won a bet.

"Oh, they are going to eat you up."

My cheeks burned. "Good?"

"Fantastic." She turned her head and bellowed, "LET HIM KNOW WE'RE READY!"

Spencer looked up.

And for one glorious second, he actually lost his composure.

His eyes widened. His mouth parted slightly. Then--boom--smugness locked back into place like a mask he was born wearing. That slow, crooked grin slithered across his face and I wanted to both melt and punch him at the same time. Bastard.

He stood and sauntered over, all calculated laziness and casual dominance. When he reached me, his fingers brushed my exposed stomach.

"I like this."

"Don't start," I hissed. "Do you know how much concealer they had to use because of you?"

"You're welcome."

"You're a nightmare."

"Dressed like a daydream?"

"Fuck Taylor Swift."

He snorted. "Too far?"

"You seriously--"

Whatever retort I was about to deliver died as the photographer--wearing a neon pink shirt so offensive it hurt to look at--approached with a grin like she'd just walked in on live porn.

"Oh, you two are going to be a dream to work with," she said, entirely too pleased. "You can almost cut the sexual tension with a knife."

I cleared my throat, cheeks already on fire.

Someone please kill me. Or at least knock over a lighting rig so I could fake an injury and leave.

"Okay, so I'm Beth. I'm the lead for this shoot," she said, words clipped and efficient. She looked between Spencer and me like we were tools she was assessing for a job. Which, fair. "I've got a few ideas to really sell what you're trying to do. So, come with me--and just do what I say."

If a few ideas was code for three hours of posing like a washed-up god with anxiety issues, then sure. Totally reasonable.

At some point, someone handed me a prop microphone. Cool. Edgy.

"I want a shot of you just screaming into the mic," Beth instructed, already crouched behind her camera. "Full-on rock star meltdown. Album cover shit."

I blinked. "You want me to actually... scream?"

Beth sighed like I was a particularly slow student. "Yes. For real. Don't pretend. Make it raw."

I glanced around at the crew--lighting techs, camera assistants, some poor intern juggling lattes--none of whom looked particularly prepared to hear guttural screaming in an enclosed space.

"Don't look at them," Beth snapped. "They'll live."

With a reluctant breath, I squared my stance and brought the mic to my lips. Okay. Just like rehearsal. Just like I used to. Just like I still practiced when no one was looking. I closed my eyes. And I screamed.

Not a polite scream. Not a scream-for-effect. It was a death growl. I let it tear out of me, pulled from the hollow pit where I used to keep my stage presence, and poured it into the room. My body curled around the sound, crouched low like I was trying to summon demons. The echo slammed against the studio walls. Startlingly loud. Raw. Unapologetic.

Silence followed.

Shit.

But then--

Applause. Loud, raucous applause.

Beth was grinning behind her lens like she'd just witnessed the second coming. "Holy fuck, that was perfect!"

"Yeah, but can he sing?" someone called out with a laugh.

Feeling dangerous, I turned, raised the mic again--and summoned the power of every queer karaoke night that ever existed.

"And I..." I belted, full diva, "... will always love youuu--"

The high note sailed. The room froze. My inner Whitney Houston ascended. Gasps. Laughter. A cheer somewhere in the back. I tossed the mic--not at anyone, just dramatically--and gave a theatrical bow. The same smartass who heckled me offered an exaggerated bow back, fully conceding. And just like that--I felt it.

Not the performance.

The freedom.

The weight I'd been carrying--the shame, the bitterness, the fear of being seen too clearly--lifted. Just a little. For the first time in years... I was back.

"This is gonna be a best-selling issue," Beth breathed, her camera still shaking in her hands. "Let's wrap--I'm beyond satisfied with what we've got."

Around me, the crew broke into motion like a hive disturbed. Lights dimmed, equipment vanished into cases, people clapped each other on the back like we'd just filmed a goddamn Oscar winner. I just stood there blinking, still catching my breath from the emotional whiplash.

Spencer had been on the sidelines the whole time, only joining in when the photographer asked for joint shots. They'd posed us close together--very close. Hands, shoulders, mouths barely apart. Spencer wore that signature look of his: bored royalty with a pulse. He didn't need to do anything to project power. He just existed, and the room bent around it.

But now?

Now he was off to the side, phone to his ear, pacing just slightly, sharp gestures slicing through the air. The vibe had shifted--no more bored billionaire. This was shark mode. Ice in his eyes, fire in his jawline. Whatever he was dealing with, it wasn't a minor inconvenience. I frowned. He looked up and caught me watching. Flashed me a quick, lazy smile. I mouthed, You okay?

He gave a thumbs up, but even from here I could see the tension in his shoulders. The lines in his forehead. I didn't buy it for a second. Before I could move toward him, Beth's voice pulled me back.

"Alright, love, come on. Let's move to the next phase--the interview's in the other room."

Oh. Right. The interview.

Because posing half shirtless in a crop top wasn't stressful enough, now they wanted me to talk about it. About the hiatus. About the reemergence. About how I went from rock star to retail dropout to, apparently, Spencer Briggs' newest obsession.

The same bubbly blonde who'd ferried me to hair and makeup appeared again like a slightly frazzled fairy godmother. She tugged me gently toward a hallway, leaving me just enough time to shoot Spencer a pleading look over my shoulder.

Save me?

He grinned and waved me on.

Traitor.

The interview room looked like a trendy therapist's office--one desk, two chairs, lots of faux plants. It smelled like expensive candles and impending doom.

And then I saw her.

The woman waiting for me had shoulder-length brown hair, bright green eyes, and the tightly coiled energy of someone who would absolutely win a lawsuit against Starbucks for not spelling her name right. She looked like a Mandy. Her eyebrows were so sharp and expressive they deserved a separate byline.

"I'm Mandy," she said brightly, and I nearly laughed out loud-- she continued striding forward to grip my hand like she planned to win something from it. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Martin."

"Elliott," I corrected automatically, doing my best to smile despite being whiplashed into yet another whirlwind. "Please. Just Elliott."

She clicked her tongue but nodded. Her expression softened--slightly. "Alright, Elliott, ready to take on the music industry again?"

There was a beat of silence. My brain tried to come up with a PR-friendly answer. Failed.

"Not really."

Her eyes twinkled. "Good. The best interviews are the unfiltered ones."

Oh, fantastic.

"I'm completely unprepared," I admitted. "For the interview. That is." A nervous chuckle escaped. "As for the music industry? I don't know. But I do know I'll hate myself if I don't try."

Something flickered in her expression. Not quite sympathy--more like curiosity, laced with just enough empathy to keep me from bolting. She cracked her knuckles--why--and gestured to a tiny recorder between us. The little red light blinked on like a countdown.

"Alright," Mandy said. "Let's dive in."

And dive in, she did.

Mandy wasn't exactly kind, but she seemed to operate on a personal policy of hitting you with the truth right between the eyes. Most of her questions were expected. A handful were just plain annoying. And several were invasive enough to make me want to crawl right out of my own skin.

I stumbled through the more "personal" bits with cheeks that felt too hot and enough "ums" to qualify as a drinking game. The whole vibe was candid intimacy--a tiny office, a single desk lamp, and the yellow glow of my mounting anxiety. After a while, we hit a lighter streak, and things settled enough that I didn't feel like I was going to spontaneously combust.

Then came the curveball.

"Being a queer musician is usually difficult, particularly in underground subcultures," Mandy said, pen poised. "What was it like being on the other side? Getting fired for 'associating' with the wrong person?"

"I wasn't fired," I said quickly--defensively.

One of her evil eyebrows arched halfway to God. "But you stepped down after the tour where your involvement with..." she glanced at her notes, "Isaac Suthers was discovered?"

There it was. The name. Isaac. I nearly flinched. I felt like I had been doing so well, too. I sighed. Spencer had told me--demanded--that I be honest. But this? This felt like swallowing glass.

"I wasn't fired," I repeated, more quietly this time. "But I wasn't exactly welcome to stay. They were worried how it would look to have an openly gay frontman. Especially after the backlash I'd gotten."

I shifted in my seat. The air suddenly felt thick. Sticky. Like I couldn't breathe right.

"It got messy," I admitted. "Ending the band just... felt like the cleanest option."

Mandy tilted her head. "Is that why you didn't speak out? Never addressed the rumors that circled during the transition?"

I stared at her. She was really asking that?

"Were you ashamed?"

The question hit like a sucker punch to the ribs.

"No," I said quickly, and then again, more fiercely, "No. I wasn't ashamed of who I am. I was hurting." The words came out raw. Brittle. Like they had been locked away too long.

"It was just... raw," I repeated.

I pressed my palms into my eyes, forcing back the sting.

"Everything fell apart at once," I said hoarsely. "My friends. The band. The career I'd spent years building. One minute I'm headlining, and the next... I'm just noise. Static. Alone."

The room fell quiet. The only sound was the tick of the wall clock and the dull rush of blood in my ears.

"Until you met Spencer Briggs," Mandy said softly.

"Until I met Spencer," I echoed. And goddammit, warmth bloomed in my chest like an infection. He'd ruined me. Rebuilt me. Unraveled everything I'd tried to keep locked down. Something caught in my throat, thick and stubborn.

"I need you to understand," I muttered, "he's a real asshole."

Mandy choked on a laugh, and the room dissolved into sudden, unexpected joy. I laughed too, helplessly. Maybe I was losing it. And then the next words slipped out--so natural, so easy, I didn't even register what I'd said until I heard them:

"But I love him."

Silence.

And then the weight of it hit.

My ears turned red. My face. My goddamn soul. I slapped both hands over my face and let out something between a groan and a wail. "Fuuuuck."

"Elliott?" Mandy said carefully, amusement cutting at the edges.

"Can you... can you not use that?" I peeked out from between my fingers. "Please? I haven't even told him yet. Jesus."

She grinned, unrepentant. "Sure, sure. I'll scratch it."

"You promise?"

"I promise," she said, clearly enjoying herself way too much. "Now. Enough mushy shit. Let's talk about your comeback."

"Oh god, kill me now."

Thankfully, the rest of the interview moved into safer territory. We talked music, future plans, the new sound I was exploring. I could almost pretend the entire emotional bloodletting hadn't just happened. Eventually, finally, we wrapped.

Spencer slipped into the room a few minutes later, effortlessly bypassing the small sea of people cluttering the hallway. He looked calm--on the outside. But I noticed the tightness in his jaw, the way his hand curled at his side like he was trying not to punch a wall.

Part of me was still mad at him for throwing me into this circus without warning. Another part wanted to throw myself into his arms and cling like a koala. Most of me? Just grateful it was over.

"Everything okay?" Spencer asked, his gaze sweeping over me, sharp and annoyingly perceptive.

"Fuck off, Spence."

He didn't flinch. Just slipped an arm around me like we hadn't just spent the last hour emotionally strip-mining my soul.

"You didn't kill her, so there's that," he offered, maddeningly cheerful. "Don't sweat the interview. It'll be fine."

"Sure," I grunted. "Fine." I shrugged his arm off. "I need to change."

"What? Why?" His brows furrowed, trailing me like I'd just kicked a puppy.

He was really enjoying the crop top. That smug gleam in his eye said a lot.

"Because dressing up for a show is one thing," I muttered, gesturing vaguely at myself. "This doesn't exactly scream 'let's go to Walmart.'"

He snorted. "Alright, El."

Then I paused. A horrifying realization struck me.

"Wait. Have you ever even been to a goddamn Walmart?"

Spencer's silence was... telling.

"Oh my god." I gaped at him. "Jesus Christ. Are you even real?"

"I've seen them on television," he said, absolutely deadpan.

"You are not a real person." I narrowed my eyes. "Okay. Target?"

He blinked at me.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." I ran both hands down my face. "I'm ten seconds away from throwing your bougie ass in my Honda and taking you somewhere real people live."

He wrinkled his nose. "I do have a car."

"No, no." I held up a hand. "It's gotta be mine. We'd get jumped in yours."

"And we won't get jumped in yours?"

I scoffed. "It's a ten-year-old blue Honda Civic, Spencer. There's no room in my budget for getting jumped. No one looks at that car and thinks 'this person is worth robbing.'"

"You ride in that glorified tin can," he said, visibly pained.

"Yes. Proudly. That glorified tin can got me through hell."

He looked like I'd personally insulted his entire bloodline. Which gave me an idea. A truly chaotic, beautiful idea.

"Tell you what," I said, straightening, smug as hell. "I'll keep the outfit--crop top, combat boots, all of it. But--"

He narrowed his eyes.

"--we get dinner at Waffle House."

His horror was immediate. Palpable. The way his mouth opened, then closed, like he couldn't even form words?

God, I lived for it.

I could see the conflict warring on his face. The man was too insatiable to pass up on ogling me like eye candy. Even if it meant riding in a tin can. His fingers brushed my bare sides. I could feel them twitching, wanting to squeeze.

"Deal."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Spencer*

Elliott had insisted I change. Apparently, he could get away with dressing like a gay apocalypse in combat boots and a crop top, but I looked "too expensive." His words. The brat made me change three times. Three.

I'd never laughed harder in my life than when he finally sighed and said, "I guess that's good enough," like he was doing me a favor. I was literally in gym clothes. A T-shirt. Joggers. Sneakers that weren't even imported. I looked like someone who bought deli meat at a supermarket. It was horrifying. But hey--if it meant he kept that damn shirt on? I'd hang upside down by my ankles. Naked. In Times Square. During tourist season.

Because for the first time since I'd met him, Elliott was relaxed. Genuinely, stupidly, goofily relaxed. His sharp edges had gone a little soft around the corners. The photoshoot hadn't broken him--it had cracked him open in the best way. He wasn't running anymore. He was ready. Ready to be seen. Heard. Claimed. As he should be.

But then I looked out the window of his Honda fucking Civic--a car so old it could vote--and stared up at the weathered yellow sign of this... Waffle House. And I wondered how much I'd truly sacrificed here.

Because holy shit, had I known we were going to eat dinner in public, surrounded by people who didn't make at least seven figures and didn't say things like "hedge fund" or "offshore accounts," I might've reconsidered. As I sat in the passenger seat of Elliott's ancient Honda, contemplating every life decision that had led me to this moment--namely agreeing to dinner at a Waffle House--his voice broke the silence.

Soft. Thoughtful. Almost boyish.

"God," he chuckled under his breath. "When I was a kid, my dad used to take us here after a day of fishing. If I'd been good--stayed quiet, didn't 'scare off all the damn fish'--I'd get a chocolate chip waffle."

I blinked, turning to look at him. It was the first time I'd ever heard him mention his dad. Hell, either of his parents. He usually kept that part of himself locked away, buried somewhere beneath all the jagged lyrics about death and fire and childhood nightmares. But right now?

There was something almost... soft in the way he spoke. A kind of fragile nostalgia lining his features--eyes distant, lips tilted just barely. It made my chest ache.

"You've never mentioned your dad before," I said carefully.

Instantly, I regretted it. His face shuttered like someone had flipped a switch, and the moment vanished.

"Oh," he said, shrugging like it didn't matter. "Yeah. We... don't really talk anymore."

The way he looked at me said everything else. I didn't have to ask. His father didn't approve. Of him. Of who he was. Of who he loved.

"And your mom?" I asked gently.

He shook his head. "She agrees with him."

Jesus.

I swallowed hard, anger flaring in my gut. It was a cold, bitter kind of fury. The kind that made you want to burn bridges other people had already torched just to make a point.

"They didn't deserve you," I said quietly.

He looked at me then--really looked--and gave me the kind of smile that broke things open inside my chest. Sad, but genuine.

"Thanks, Spence."

He unbuckled his seatbelt, reaching for the door. But instead of getting out, he hesitated--just for a second--then leaned across the console. And kissed me.

It was soft. Gentle. None of the hungry desperation we usually fell into. Just the press of his mouth to mine, his nose brushing against mine in something that felt so intimate, I almost forgot how to breathe. He pulled back, eyes closed, breath warm between us.

"Spencer?" he murmured.

"Yeah?"

A pause.

"I think I love you."

The world tilted. He'd said it. He'd actually fucking said it. Weeks had passed since I'd said those words to him. Weeks of waiting--patiently, quietly--hoping he'd let himself feel it. Hoping he'd give himself permission to be loved. And now... now he had.

"Say it again," I breathed.

He smirked.

"No."

And then the little shit opened the door and climbed out of the car like he hadn't just detonated a bomb in my chest. I scrambled after him, half in disbelief. He was halfway to the Waffle House entrance already, wind tossing his dark hair, his shoulders relaxed in a way I rarely got to see. He looked lighter. Freer.

Mine.

"Hey!" I shouted after him, ignoring the few patrons loitering in the parking lot. "You don't just say that and walk away, you punk."

He turned, grinning wickedly over his shoulder, and flipped me off. Then he disappeared through the door. Oh, hell no. This man was testing every ounce of patience I had left. And I loved him for it.

Inside Waffle House was... somehow worse than outside Waffle House. The fluorescent lights flickered like they were threatening violence. The floor was a crime scene of syrup stains and fry grease. And the air smelled like scorched bacon and generational regret. I spent more on a single dry-cleaning bill than this entire building was worth. But I followed Elliott anyway.

He walked in like he owned the place--chin high, eyeliner sharp, crop top unapologetically riding up just enough to show off the line of ink down his stomach. Every head in the restaurant turned. A few mouths hung open. I watched the glares. Watched the narrowed eyes. And felt something primal coil beneath my skin.

Let someone say something. Just one person. I dared them.

But no one did.

Elliott grabbed my arm and dragged me toward a booth that was more sticky than structurally sound.

"This is unsanitary," I muttered as he shoved me in.

"Here," he said, far too cheerfully, plopping into the seat across from me and handing me a laminated menu that stuck to my fingers like it had bonded to my soul.

Sticky table. Sticky bench. Sticky air.

Everything in this place was sticky. How do people live like this?

The waitress shuffled over, looking like she'd survived a car crash and then immediately lost the will to keep going.

"Welcome to Waffle House, what can I get started for you?" she deadpanned, without blinking. Her voice was hollow. Her nametag said "Rhonda." She sounded like she died yesterday.

"Two coffees and waters, please," Elliott said brightly, like we were sitting at some charming bistro in Milan. "Cream and sugar too, if you've got it."

"Outta creamer. Milk okay?"

"Sure."

Rhonda left without writing anything down, wandered behind the counter, pulled out her phone, and began texting with the air of someone who had seen things. I stared after her. Then turned my gaze back to Elliott.

"Elliott."

"Yes?" he asked innocently, chin resting in his hand, eyes glittering with mischief.

"What is this."

His grin could've powered the whole damn restaurant.

"Culture," he said, sounding unbearably smug.

"This place is filthy."

"Yep."

"The service is terrible."

"Mmhmm."

"At least tell me the food is good."

Elliott snorted. "Absolutely not."

I stared at him. Then at the linoleum floor that had clearly survived a war. Then back at him again.

"Why would you do this to me?"

His laughter--actual, honest-to-god giggles--almost made the suffering worth it.

Almost.

The coffee tasted like cat piss filtered through a dishrag. The food? Technically edible, but that was being generous. Elliott had insisted I try the hashbrowns. Smothered? Covered? Capped? Excuse me? This place had a secret language.

They brought me a pile of half-cooked shredded potatoes with what looked like a slice of American cheese vaguely melted on top.

I was so confused.

Why did people like this place? What spell had it cast over the masses? But here I was. At this war crime of a restaurant. Drinking liquid disappointment. Because Elliott had asked.

Elliott had asked me, so I sat in a sticky booth, surrounded by sticky air, sipping battery acid from a chipped mug--because that snarky, sharp-mouthed little menace across from me was smiling.

Really smiling.

The kind of smile that cracked through all the thick eyeliner and the prickly armor and whispered, I'm okay right now. And god help me... it made every bit of this hellscape worth it. Fuck the Waffle House. Fuck the coffee. Fuck the chaotic clowns working the griddle. I didn't care if I looked out of place or if this booth was now part of me on a molecular level.

Because Elliott Martin was grinning like a dumbass.

But I had no idea of the storm to come. I didn't know this quiet, perfect moment was about to be ripped away from us. And the worst part?

I'd only have myself to blame.