Pushing Boundaries Ch. 04

Letter from the Author

Thank you so much for reading--and an extra special thank you to those who've been here since Chapter One. It means the world to me. Writing Spencer and Elliott has been a real adventure, and I've got plenty more planned for them.

I can't promise a tidy story. But I can promise one that's full of heart, heat, and emotional wreckage. These two are beautifully messy, and it only gets messier from here.

This chapter takes us back to where it all began. I hope you'll come with me--and stay for what's still to come.

Much love,

BombaDillyLilly

***********************************************************************************************************

*Spencer*

I was dressed down--or, at least, my version of it.

Blue jeans. A soft V-neck that landed somewhere between plum and eggplant. Designer sneakers. Everything tastefully casual. Effortlessly intentional. Relaxed, but only in appearance. It was all designer, of course. I wouldn't settle for anything less.

This bar, however?

Definitely less.

The lighting was too warm, the floor too sticky, and the drinks were poured like they were being smuggled out of a monastery. It smelled like sweat, smoke, and regret--topped off with cheap liquor and cheaper decisions. The crowd was mostly half-drunk twenty-somethings and sad thirty-somethings trying not to be alone on a Friday night.

There was a sign bolted above the corner platform--a sorry excuse for a stage--that promised Live Music at 8!

I checked my watch.

8:07.

Not very punctual, apparently.

I scanned the crowd for something worthwhile. Someone. Tonight wasn't about games. My type was simple--passive. Pretty. Eager to please. The kind of man who'd melt the second I looked at him like he mattered. There was always one here--within an hour or so--who'd do exactly as I said. No matter who they came in with.

I sighed against my whiskey sour. No one worth the effort had surfaced yet.

Then, at nearly twenty past, the ragged sound system coughed to life. A man with his back to the room knelt by a guitar case, setting up with quiet precision. I couldn't see much of him from where I stood--just the shape of him hunched over, the motion of a shoulder roll, the arch of his spine. Then he shrugged out of a black jacket.

Toned, tattooed arms caught the low light. Ink coiling up his skin, lean muscle shifting beneath it.

Interesting.

His blood-red shirt clung to his frame, cheap cotton stretched just tight enough to tempt. Dark curls hung messily over his ears, brushing the collar of his shirt.

I tilted my glass, watching him. Curiosity replaced boredom. Not enough to move.

But enough to stay.

He stepped toward the stage--guitar now slung over his back, acoustic, worn around the edges. When he turned, I caught his face in profile. High cheekbones. Sharp jaw. Scene-level eyeliner like it was still 2009 and he'd never been told better. It should've been ridiculous.

But it worked.

Faded jeans slouched over battered Converse. A smear of stubble. A curled smirk that didn't reach his eyes. He looked tired. Pissed off. Maybe both. Intentional or not, it fit.

He crouched behind the mic stand like he belonged there. No posturing. No nerves. Just--settling. Like gravity had put him in his place.

He leaned into the mic. "Evening, everyone."

No one looked up. Not a head turned. Not even the drunk ones. And I saw it--just for a second--his shoulders slouched. His confidence cracked. He hesitated.

"I'm..."

He trailed off. Voice low.

"Whatever."

Then he started playing. Something familiar. Basic. A cover I could barely care to clock. But-- He played it differently. It wasn't polished. It wasn't sweet. He dragged the melody out with a kind of sadness that felt too old for someone his age. Like he'd bled out on barstools before. Like this song had cost him something.

And for a moment?

The whole room disappeared.

Just the rasp of strings. The breath caught in his throat. And that voice--aching, hollow, honest. I found myself disappointed he hadn't said his name. Not for the crowd. For me.

Something stirred in my gut--hot and insistent.

Not quite arousal.

But not far off.

Want.

The kind that settles low. Slow.

The kind that hums like static beneath your ribs.

The kind that whispered "he should be mine."

His curls caught the stage lights just so. He leaned into the mic like it was something sacred--whispering half-spoken verses like secrets. Fragile. Intimate.

It made something ache in my chest. I knew how cliché it was--the depressed, disillusioned musician, bleeding out for a room full of people who wouldn't remember his face. But I'd remember.

I knew I would.

I watched his entire set, rapt.

He was good. Too good for this shithole and the slurring, horny crowd that didn't deserve him. He leaned toward rock--that much was clear. There was grit beneath the elegance. Rough edges where polish should've been. I wondered how far he went. How loud he got. If he screamed-- in more ways than one.

________________________________________________________________

*Elliott*

I didn't even know why I bothered anymore.

My career was dead and buried, and here I was, clutching at whatever scraps Karl's was willing to throw my way. No one ever got discovered at a dive like this. Hell, rediscovered seemed like a pipe dream.

When my set finally sputtered to an end, I packed my battered guitar into the back of my Honda Civic--the only ride I trusted to get me away from this godforsaken town.

But I wasn't done yet.

I pushed back into the bar, the scent of stale beer and desperation thick in the air.

Free artist drink--my only prize tonight. And maybe--just maybe--I could find someone to drag home. Someone warm, easy, forgettable. Someone that might help me forget. Even if it was only for a little while.

I leaned over the bar and earned an immediate scowl from Tyler, the bartender with the personality of a clogged drain. Someone wasn't thrilled I wanted what I was due. I arched a brow.

He scowled deeper. "I don't know why Scott keeps letting you come back here," he snapped.

I gave him the kind of smile that made people want to hit me. "Because I'm one of about five people in this godforsaken city who can actually play a guitar. That's why."

"Rum and coke," I added sweetly. "And I'll fuck off."

With a sigh, he poured--mostly rum, barely coke, and enough ice to cool a corpse--then shoved it across the bar like it insulted his mother.

At least it was free.

I drifted away, glass in hand, and started scanning for cute--or passably cute--faces. I wasn't everyone's type. Thin but not scrawny, inked to hell, pierced, vaguely brooding. It was an alt look. Genetics even dyed my hair black for me.

Still. I wasn't bad looking. Just... niche. But Karl's had its regulars. The kind I could always count on: the boys who drank cheap beer and laughed at the dumbest jokes. Easy smiles. Easier hands.

I had the routine down.

Get the drink.

Listen for the laughter.

Find the boy who smiles too wide and blushes too fast.

Score.

I clocked a twink who barely looked twenty-one. Blonde. Glasses. Baby-faced with a nervous laugh that cracked like glass. I could hear the gay-voice from here. The kind of guy who might feel special--chosen--if the grungy, tragic-looking "cool guy" in the eyeliner paid him a little attention. Easy prey.

I leaned back against the wall, nursing my half-dead rum and coke, and let my grin bloom slow and lazy. Tilted my head. Just enough for the light to catch the piercing in my brow. He noticed. His laugh stuttered mid-sentence, and his friends peeled off one by one, shooting smug glances and leaving him stranded.

Bingo.

I pushed off the wall, one hand tucked in my pocket, swagger low and loose as I ambled closer. Sometimes I was blatant. Sometimes coy. Tonight? I felt like being dangerous. Just for fun.

So I raked a look down his frame like I already knew what he looked like naked. Let my gaze linger just long enough to make him squirm. Then I raised my glass and gave him that look--half-smirk, a flick of my brows.

Message: I want you.

Message: Right now.

He tripped toward me on legs that looked a little too short for confidence and slid into the space beside me like a kid sneaking into a seat at the adult table.

Too eager.

Too shy.

He cleared his throat like he had something clever to say. He didn't. I didn't give him the chance. I draped my arm around his waist and pulled him in like we were already a thing.

"Hi," I said, voice low and rough with amusement. A crooked grin stretching lazy across my face. He blushed like a virgin at a strip club. Nearly evaporated on the spot. Poor thing.

"Did it hurt?" he asked, fumbling the words.

My grin sharpened. "When I fell from heaven?"

He actually laughed--an awkward stammer of a sound--and then beamed like he'd scored a point.

"Your piercings," he clarified.

Oh.

Oooh.

I blinked slow and lazy. Didn't bother with eye contact. "A little," I murmured. "Wanna know which one hurt the most?"

I didn't wait for permission. I caught his wrist and pressed his hand flat against my chest--right over the ring. Let him feel it through the thin fabric. Flexed just enough to make it move.

"Right there," I said, soft and knowing.

His palm twitched--then his thumb slid over the metal. My breath hitched.

"Feels good," I said against his ear, my nose brushing the sharp edge of his jaw. He smelled like deodorant, cheap laundry soap, and nerves. Clean. Sweet. Unused. He'd probably never topped in his life. Hell, he could be a verified virgin, but that was his problem--not mine. He was the sort that just swirled somewhere in the middle--waiting for someone to pull him in one direction or the other.

"I'm Elliott," I breathed.

He swallowed hard. A slight stammer as his hand drifted lower--waist, hipbone, shaking just a little. "Jeremy."

I tugged him closer, close enough to feel his pulse stutter through his fingertips.

"Nice to meet you, Jeremy."

He made a breathy noise in his throat and dropped his gaze straight to my mouth. Undisguised. Eager. God, this was too fucking easy.

"Outside," I told him.

"What?"

"Need a smoke."

His hand pressed flat, fingers bunching in my shirt like he thought I might actually vanish.

"I could--come with?"

There it was. Hopeful. Soft. Practically wagging his tail. I stepped back, slow. Deliberate. Left Jeremy's hands grabbing at nothing. It'd be sweeter when they were clawing at me later. But then--

Something made me pause. A flicker. A weight.

I glanced over his shoulder, and there he was.

The asshole in the purple shirt.

Still sitting. Still sipping. Still staring like I was a puzzle he intended to take apart piece by piece. Not like a fan. Not like someone impressed. Like a wolf. Patient. Calculating. Judging me like he already knew how I'd taste. And something in me curled--hot and defensive. Pissed off. I needed a smoke more than I needed the twink at my side, more than I needed to pretend I was going home with anyone.

I downed the rest of my drink in one go, slammed the glass on the bar, and turned on my heel.

Jeremy blinked, confused, mouth half-open as I left him behind--hopeful, embarrassed, still trying to understand that I'd probably moved on. I shoved through the door, cold air biting my skin as I wrestled my L&Ms and lighter out of my pocket.

Should singers smoke? Absolutely not. Did I give a fuck? Not even a little. I got two drags in before the door creaked open behind me.

Not Jeremy.

McPurple-Fucking-Shirt.

Of course.

I flicked my cigarette out with a sharp flick, grinding it into the brick with more force than necessary. Pissy wasn't the word for it. I was radioactive. The perfect mood for the voice in my head whispering say something rude. Say something mean. See what he does.

"Can I fucking help you?" I asked, cool as ice--voice leveled low like a warning shot.

His smile curled slow and deliberate. Not wide. Not friendly. Dangerous. Like he already had me pinned under him in his mind and was just waiting for me to figure it out.

"No," he said simply, voice warm as a velvet knife. "I don't need anything."

He stepped closer. Piss-close.

Towering. Dangerous. The air around him felt sharp. Thick with heat and challenge and something darker.

And fuck, up close?

Devastating.

Tall--easily six-three. Expensive scent, subtle but biting. Hair neat. Face like a sculptor had tried to capture arrogance. He was calm. But I'd seen that look before--on predators. On men who didn't ask. Men who took.

I squared my shoulders. Didn't back down.

Because fuck that.

"What the fuck do you want?" I snapped, letting the venom pour in thick and slow.

His eyes lit like I'd just bared my throat. Like this was exactly what he was waiting for.

"Why so prickly, Mr. Hot Topic?" he drawled, voice smooth as sin. "Didn't grow out of that angsty teenage phase?"

I laughed--sharp, hollow, dead behind the eyes. "Wow. So creative. Think you're the first one to pull that out of the bargain bin?"

He didn't flinch. Just tilted his head and smiled like I was amusing. Like I'd already lost.

"Well," he said, lazy and condescending, "something tells me you just don't like authority figures."

I scoffed. "Oh? Is that what you are?"

He shrugged, completely unbothered. "Of a sort."

I sneered and took a deliberate step back--just far enough to let my gaze drag from the top of his stupid, beautiful face down his broad chest, that fucking belt, those slacks, and back up again.

"Yeah? So, daddy--"

And I made sure it was the most saccharine, mocking tone I'd ever used--filthy and fake and dipped in venom.

"--if I piss you off, will you spank me?"

The air went still. Like we'd hit the wire on a bomb. And from the flash behind his eyes-- Oh, he wanted to. He really, really wanted to. But I was done wasting time on this cocky bastard. Jeremy was still peeking from behind him--nervous, eager, sweet. All wide eyes and pliant energy, the kind of boy who'd blush if I kissed his neck too hard. Exactly what I needed tonight. So I turned and pushed past. And then--

Fuck.

The bastard grabbed me.

Fingers laced through the back of my hair--firm, possessive--and pulled.

Not enough to hurt.

Just enough to own me for a second.

A gasp tore free from my throat--sharp, unbidden. My spine arched, hips subtly pitching back like my body had made a decision before my brain had caught up. My breath stuttered. Everything inside me--every inch of skin, every nerve ending--snapped to high alert like someone had flipped a switch. Heat. Static. The wild pulse of want that came out of fucking nowhere.

I should've ripped away.

I should've hit him.

Instead, I froze--melted, more like--barely swaying, jaw slack, head tilted just enough to follow his grip. I was aching. Confused. Turned on in the most infuriating way imaginable. He leaned in--close enough to brush my cheek with his breath. It wasn't even words at first, just the sound of his mouth near mine that sent shivers down the length of my spine. My fingers twitched like they wanted to grab onto something, someone.

Then, slow as anything, he slipped something into the front pocket of my jeans.

A business card.

"Just in case," he murmured--right against my skin. Velvet and danger and something darker underneath. And then--he let go.

The moan that climbed up my throat nearly slipped out.

Nearly.

Only sheer spite kept it locked behind my teeth.

He walked away like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just short-circuited my entire fucking nervous system and walked off with a piece of me in his hand. Jeremy hesitated in the open doorway, clearly having watched everything.

"You ok?"

"Yeah," I grumbled. "Fucking assholes been eyeing me all night."

I wouldn't look down. Wouldn't touch the pocket or check the slip of cardstock now burning through the denim. Not here. No fucking way.

"Must have wanted what I had," I added with a stiff shrug.

"Can't blame him," Jeremey said. Huh. Sweet. Didn't expect him to say that. Then again, he was the one I was gonna go home with tonight.

"Come on," I said, tossing a haphazard grin over my shoulder. "Let's get drunk and fuck." The words felt hollow. Like maybe even I didn't believe them. But--That snapped him out of the daze enough that he actually followed me. It took all my self-control not to look for Purple Shirt when I went back in. No goddamn way. Not giving that fucking peacock the satisfaction.

But whatever spell Jeremy had me under? It had thinned. Dulled. Blurred around the edges, just enough to be noticeable.

All because one guy--one cocky bastard in designer loafers--thought he could grab me like I was his.

My skin still tingled where his fingers had been.

Fuming, I excused myself to the bathroom. Locked the door. Waited just long enough to stop shaking. Only then did I reach for the card still burning a hole through my jeans.

Spencer Briggs

C. E. O. VertiCore Systems

And beneath that, a phone number. No bullshit. No fluff. Just facts. I didn't even think. I opened my phone, pulled up a new message, and typed:

Text to: Unknown Number

Fuck. You.

________________________________________________________________

*Spencer*

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Didn't even take a full half-hour. I smiled into my drink.

Unknown Number: Fuck. You.

I huffed a quiet chuckle. Sharp. Direct. Pissed.

God, he was fun already.

I swiped up and fired back without a second thought.

Me: Aw... Did I interrupt your date?

I didn't put the phone away. Couldn't. The message bubble appeared immediately--like he was waiting. Fiery little thing.

Unknown Number: Maybe I wanna fuck him, ever think of that, dickhead?

My grin sharpened. So he was still pretending I didn't get to him. Cute.

Me: Maybe I wanted to hear you sing again.

That bought me a longer pause. Ten seconds. Twenty. Then--

Unknown Number: Yeah. Ok.

Unknown Number: ????

That middle finger made me laugh, low and quiet, like it had been pulled out of my chest. I set my phone down on the bar, tapped the rim of my glass once, then picked it up again.

Me: You're wasted on this place.

And he was. Brilliant. Bitter. Passionate. Tense, like the bars of a cage he hadn't recognized yet. That guitar sounded like a confessional. But at his fingertips, it would be a weapon. Instantly, the bubble pulsed. It started and stopped half a dozen times before he sent me his Instagram handle. Hm. I'll bite. I clicked.

Elliott Martin.

I scrolled through his artist's page admiring his photographs and self-promotion. He had a signature style. A well-composed darkness edged in light. And if the talent was impressive, the work ethic was even more so. It showed. Page after page after page of eye-catching, grungy originals and impeccably executed covers... and yet? Only a few thousand followers.

Why the hell was he here? Scowling at the crowd, putting his heart into the music like someone had grabbed it and forced it from his mouth. It didn't make sense. He had raw talent that demanded stardom. And yet--he was still here. Still drinking shit drinks and fucking lonely boys who wouldn't appreciate him. Couldn't. It'd be like offering gold to someone whose grasp was too weak to hold.

Me: Ditch the twink. We both know you're not really interested.

A beat.

Then:

Unknown Number: I don't bottom.

Oh, sweetheart.

I almost laughed. That was adorable.

Because that stutter in his step when I caught his hair? That hadn't been resistance. That had been instinct--body surrendering before the brain caught up. That hadn't been a flinch. That had been muscle memory aching for something it hadn't had yet.

It wasn't defiance. It was a lie.

My fingers moved before I could think better of it.

Me: Neither do I.

Send.

Let that sit. Let him choke on it. But then--I surprised even myself. Some unspoken thread tugged tight, like I didn't want him to disappear. Like this wasn't just another game. So I sent another.

Me: What's your drink?

The typing bubble appeared. Vanished. Appeared again.

He was debating.

And then, finally--

Unknown Number: Rum and coke.

I smiled.

Got him.

________________________________________________________________

*Elliott*

What the fuck is wrong with me?

I didn't want to come out of the bathroom now. This had quickly gone from terrible to stupid. Even I had limits to how often my mouth was bigger than my dick. Maybe Purple Shirt-- aka Spencer Briggs-- would be gone by the time I went back out.

But then my phone dinged.

Spencer: What's your drink?

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Pulsed. Left. Returned. Debated.

He could be a good distraction. An insane distraction. A fucking disaster. But-- he'd liked my music. And that meant more to me than-- Fuck.

Me: Rum and coke

Send.

FUCK.

What was wrong with me??

I dragged my hand through my hair in frustration. Turned off my screen. Punched the lock screen button just to turn the damn thing on again and mash at the same sequence of numbers. Just to shut it off. Just to light the screen again. Repeat. Repeat.

Buzz.

God. His reply was already there.

Spencer: I'm on the corner. Gonna hide in the bathroom all night?

What a dick.

I'd go out there and tell him exactly what I thought of him. Asshat. Creep. Bossy. Tall-as-fuck. Exactly what I didn't need.

Another message lit up.

Spencer: Unless you want me to join you?

Oh. Oh no. I sent another middle finger emoji. Then I groaned. Jesus Christ, Elliott. Get your shit together. There was no coming back from this. I was so beyond not saying no at this point. I yanked the door open and marched out. I stormed past Jeremy, dodging the shocked, confused sound he made. I couldn't even look him in the face. This should never have happened.

I saw Spencer on the corner of the bar, just like he'd said.

And there it was.

A rum and coke.

Waiting.

Waiting like he knew I'd come.

And yeah--okay. I realized it was immature. I knew it was dramatic. I knew it was the kind of shit people laughed about the next day. I didn't care. I walked up to him, took that drink--

--and threw it straight in his face.

Didn't wait to see his reaction. Didn't say a word. Just turned on my heel and stormed out of the bar.

Fuck. You. Spencer Briggs.

That asshole showed up at my next 3 gigs.

________________________________________________________________

*Spencer*

I wasn't used to being ignored. Not like this. Most people--hell, everyone--tried to impress me. Or undress me. Or beg for a minute of my time. But Elliott? Elliott fucking Martin had the gall to throw a drink in my face and act like I was the problem.

He was absolutely unhinged in the most delightful way.

And every time he spotted me in the crowd? The way his jaw clenched? The glint in his eye? Like he was gearing up to commit a crime?

Beautiful little psychopath.

Petty as hell and arrogant enough to believe it was justified.

No wonder I wanted to ruin him.

No wonder I wanted him mine.

I'd keep that bratty rockstar like a pet. Hm. Pet. It suited him.

Not every musician was worth a second listen, but Elliott had more raw talent in his bruised, inked fingers than the entire top 40 combined. Every set he played--unpolished, furious, full of ghosts--sounded like a dare. Like a confession he'd choke you for repeating. I should've known the man behind the mic wasn't just smoke and snarl.

After his second gig--rougher than the first, angrier--I waited.

The crowd was thinning. Most patrons were sloshed or busy trying to grind on strangers by the bar. That's when I saw him.

Outside.

Leaning against the brick wall like he belonged to the night.

The guitar slung at his hip, red paint scuffed and peeling. A cigarette caught between two ringed fingers. His septum ring caught the streetlamp glow. He was wearing black mesh over a torn tank, skin and tattoos on display like a challenge. He looked like sex and heartbreak in a music video. Like something you didn't survive loving. And fuck, I wasn't supposed to be thinking like that.

Elliott took a long drag. Smirked when he caught me staring. Bastard.

"Show's over, asshole," he said without pretense.

Damn. Even off stage, he sounded unreal.

I sauntered closer, leaned against the wall just beside him, folding my arms like I wasn't burning up inside.

"You are just so approachable," I said dryly.

His laugh--low, crooked, mean--was a goddamn soundtrack. Then he leaned toward me, puffed a slow cloud of smoke in my face, and smiled like the devil himself.

I coughed. On principle.

"Those things'll kill you."

He flicked the bud to the ground where it hissed in a puddle. "Good."

Silence fell.

Thick. Cloying. Laced with heat and disdain and some fucked-up version of interest that felt like a blade pressed to the throat--dangerous, but thrilling.

"What the fuck do you want?" Elliott asked. His voice was flat, brittle at the edges.

I considered lying. But I had a habit--well, many habits--and the worst one was honesty at the wrong time.

I shrugged. "What's got you so angry?"

He smiled--sharp, mean. But there was no joy in it. Just teeth. "Maybe I've got daddy issues."

Too on the nose. Too easy. He was deflecting. I let it go. For now.

"You're a good musician," I said instead, softer.

That startled him. For just a beat, he blinked like I'd shoved him into traffic.

Then-- "Fuck off, Briggs."

The way he said my name was practically a threat.

"Telling me you like my music and that you think I'm pretty isn't gonna get you laid."

"Touchy, aren't you?"

"Seriously." His voice cracked sharply. "Fuck off. What's some hotshot like you want with me, anyway?"

I blinked, calm. Watching.

He jabbed a finger in my direction. "Yeah, I looked you up, motherfucker. Nepotism at its finest. Fucking trust fund baby."

"And here I thought I was the asshole," I murmured. "Who taught you manners?"

"Your mom," he said without missing a beat.

He didn't wait for a reaction. Just peeled off the wall, brushing past me with a swagger that barely masked the fatigue in his shoulders. That was new. The mask slipped for a second--just long enough for me to see the weight dragging behind him.

What the hell happened to him?

________________________________________________________________

*Elliott*

I'd officially hit my lowest fucking low. Signed myself up to wear an orange apron and mix paints for practically minimum wage. From musician to Home Depot employee. What's next? Cover band weddings? Birthday party clown gigs?

Every morning I clocked in, I had to fight the urge to bash my head into the paint shaker. The only thing worse than this job was the pitying look some of my local, ex-fans gave me when they recognized me--former frontman of Beneath the Carnage, now asking if they want satin or eggshell finish.

Kill me.

The truth? I was spiraling. Hard. Kicked out of my own band. Dropped from my last deal. The city was expensive, gigs were few and far between, and I hadn't written a full song in weeks. The spark was dying. Or maybe it had already gone out and I was just too fucking stubborn to notice.

I didn't know how much longer I could keep this up.

One by one, life's bright sides had been ripped away, and now the only thing I seemed good at was driving people off. Apparently, trauma makes you "exhausting."

My whole-ass personality was a dumpster fire.

Every relationship I'd ever had ended in flames and blocked numbers. Every. Fucking. One. And friends?

Ha.

What friends?

I don't even want to think about family.

... Fuck. I was lonely. Lonely in the way that turns your chest inside out. The kind that hums in your bones and makes your skin feel too tight. And I blame that entirely for the monumentally stupid thing I did next.

Me: hey fkkn trust fund bby

Not even a minute passed.

Spencer: Can I help you?

MY GOD. He is such a dick.

Me: playing tmmr @ Red Stag 7

He hadn't left my head since I deep-dived his socials like a full-blown creep.

Watched every smug interview clip. Saw those photos of him in tailored suits like he owned the goddamn world. And I hated it.

Hated him.

Hated me.

Then had the audacity to dream about him--Spencer fucking Briggs--crawling across my bed in nothing but designer shoes and a wristwatch that probably cost more than my car.

I don't even know why I asked him.

Maybe I just wanted a familiar face in the crowd. And by familiar, I mean a face I'd considered punching on more than one occasion.

His reply came like a gut punch:

Spencer: I know.

Me: fkkn creep

Not one to defy expectations, Spencer Briggs showed up to the Red Stag at 6:45 sharp--like he'd been waiting all day for a chance to haunt me again.

But this time?

He didn't lurk in the shadows. Didn't play the passive voyeur in some corner booth. No. This time, the bastard sat front and center.

The bar filled in around him, upscale and steady--button-downs, silk blouses, fifteen-dollar cocktails. A more polished crowd than I was used to. Not that they gave a damn about me. Most didn't even glance at the stage.

But he did.

From the second I stepped out of the greenroom, his eyes were on me. Steady. Unblinking. Like he was here for a private show. Like I owed him one.

I'd dressed up--black slacks, button-down, boots I'd shined in the parking lot like a sad cliché. At least it wasn't the ugly orange apron tonight.

But this?

This meant something.

He was enjoying this--whatever this was--more than anyone else in the room. And that did something to me. Stoked the part of me that wanted to burn down everything I touched. So I leaned into it. Let my voice drop lower. Let the growl curl at the edge of every lyric. Gave him every last fuck I had left to give--carved it into the chords like it was gospel.

By the third song, it didn't even feel like I was playing for the room.

Just him.

And God help me, I liked it. When I finished my set, he didn't wave me over. Didn't motion. Didn't smile. Just watched. Like he knew I'd come to him anyway.

Of course I did.

And it pissed me off.

I threw myself into the chair across from him, scowl locked and loaded.

He had two drinks on the table, both untouched--like he'd timed this perfectly. Like he knew I'd cave. Like he was always two fucking steps ahead. Yet-- he was guarding them.

"If I give you a drink," he said, head tilted, eyes glittering, "are you going to throw it at me again?"

"The thought hadn't occurred to me," I lied--grinning like I meant to kill him.

He studied me for a beat. Not like he was trying to figure me out. Like he already had. Like he was weighing whether to laugh... or drag me into the nearest bathroom and ruin my life. Instead, he pushed a glass toward me. Slowly. No flourish. Just inevitability.

He probably expected me to toss it in his face out of sheer spite.

It was what I was best at.

But... no.

Fuck that.

"Thanks," I muttered, dragging the dainty little cocktail closer. Something fruity. Something pink. Something loaded with vodka.

I sniffed it suspiciously. "Am I about to be roofied?"

His brows arched in amusement. "That'd make it too easy."

Jesus.

Who says that?

I took a cautious sip--too sweet, too dangerous--and narrowed my eyes at him over the rim.

"My friends know who I'm with. They expect a text in the morning."

Total lie.

Not a soul in the world knew where I was tonight.

I was a walking red flag wrapped in eyeliner and desperation.

But if he saw through it, he didn't say a word.

He just smiled--sharp, smug, wolfish--and lifted his own drink.

"Then let's give them something to talk about."

________________________________________________________________

*Spencer*

He drank slow. Measured. Careful.

Good.

Smart.

He wasn't sure if he liked me yet. Which was... fascinating. Because he was the one who invited me this time. That made him dangerous. Not because he was reckless--but because something had changed. A crack had formed. A want had surfaced. He hadn't even tried to hide it when he texted me. That wasn't bravado. That was loneliness dressed up as a challenge.

And I never could resist a challenge.

Tonight, though... he wasn't the same snarling, drink-throwing brat I'd come to expect. Not right away. He'd been awkward at first. Asked about the weather, of all things. Like we were old coworkers stuck in an elevator. But once the conversation shifted to music--his music--he lit up like a fuse.

He talked with his hands. Leaned in without realizing. Rambled about some obscure post-hardcore band that "no one fucking appreciated anymore," and I let him go. Just watched. Captivated.

Then something flickered. Died. That little spark? Snuffed out mid-sentence. He glanced away like he'd said too much. Like joy was a vulnerability he couldn't afford. And just like that, he was back behind the wall.

"Elliott," I said quietly.

He didn't look up.

I didn't touch him. Not yet. But I leaned forward, voice lower now. Intentional.

"What happened?"

He blinked at his glass like it held the answer.

"Nothin'. Just tired."

Bullshit.

But I let it lie. For now. Because I wasn't here to interrogate him. I was here to peel him open--slowly. Carefully. With precision. To explore the pieces no one else had bothered with. Because Elliott Martin had a flame that deserved to be remembered. Not snuffed out by a city that chewed through artists like cigarettes.

So, I steered the conversation somewhere safer. My job. Corporate buzzwords. Boardroom politics. He didn't pretend to care. Not for a second. And honestly? I respected that.

I couldn't exactly tell him about the other things. The darker things... The bloodier things...

He told me about dropping out of college. I told him about my law degree, and he called it "soulless paperwork cosplay," which might've been the first time I laughed in months.

Every time his drink hit empty, I made sure a fresh one took its place. Not to dull him--God no. I wanted him sharp. But I needed him loose enough to stop running. To talk without flinching. To breathe without bracing.

Elliott Martin was lonely. I could feel it in the pauses. See it in the he watched as if expecting me to leave. He didn't guard his sadness. Not with me. Not tonight. And something about that felt like a gift.

We talked for two hours. Maybe more.

And oddly enough?

It was the most honest I'd felt in years. There was something about a pretty, damaged boy with a voice like sin and a laugh like chapel bells. Something that enticed. That inflamed.

That made me wonder--how far I could go before he begged me not to stop.

I wasn't subtle when I shifted closer. Let our thighs brush--just barely. An inch. Then another. My arm slid over the back of his chair, casual and deliberate. I curled my fingers into the thick, dark mess of his curls. He shivered. His lashes dipped, breath catching--but he didn't pull away. He leaned in, just slightly. Just enough to tell me what I already suspected.

Touch-starved.

I let my fingers drift. Massaging lightly at the base of his neck--slow, slow strokes, dragging tension out of him like poison from a wound. He sighed. A soft, unguarded sound. The kind you only make when you're forgetting to be afraid. His head tilted toward me, involuntary. I heard the breathy sound he made--half-words, half-grunts. Probably something crass.

Keep doing that and I'll have to jerk off in the restroom.

Something like that.

I grinned. Low. Dark. Hungry.

Because that tone--unhinged, wanting, loose with need?

It worked for me.

Oh, it fucking worked.

I brought my other hand to his chin, thumb brushing the soft swell of his bottom lip before I pulled him in. The kiss wasn't obscene. Just a brush of mouths--tame, even. Barely a promise. But it was enough. Enough to make him blink. Jerk back like I'd shocked him. Like he'd been dreaming and just remembered who he was.

His brow creased.

"Why the fuck did you do that?"

The words weren't curious. They were sharp. Defensive. Laced with something hot and frantic underneath.

"You didn't seem to mind," I said, smooth and even. Mild, almost amused. I could've called him out. But I didn't need to.

His lips parted. "That's not--"

It broke. Whatever he was about to say, it shattered in a breathy little sound--something between a whimper and a swallowed moan.

God.

Poor thing.

All those feelings coiled inside him like a spring just waiting to snap.

"Come on," I murmured. Soft. But it wasn't a question. I stood and held out a hand. He took it. He fucking followed me.

But outside, it was him who pushed me--shoved me into the wall with a roughness that nearly startled a laugh from my chest. For half a second I thought he might punch me.

But no.

He grabbed my collar and yanked me down, lips crashing into mine in something violent and starved. All teeth and tongue and self-loathing. Messy. Beautiful. Desperate.

Oh no, pretty boy.

That's not how I play.

________________________________________________________________

*Elliott*

Spencer swapped our positions with enough force to knock the breath out of me. My back hit the brick wall hard, and before I could even gasp-- He kissed me.

Claimed my mouth like it already belonged to him. And it wrecked me.

I expected rough.

I expected teeth.

I expected to be devoured.

Instead, he kissed me like I was holy.

Lips and breath and heat. A rhythm I couldn't follow, couldn't match--just feel. He built an ache low in my gut, and it crawled up my spine like a warning. Like a prayer. I'd never been kissed like that before. When I finally surfaced--barely--I should've stepped back. Should've said something cutting. Should've pretended I still had control.

But then he whispered it:

"You don't actually want me."

His breath ghosted along my cheek. His lips brushed mine again--softer now. A tease. A tether.

"You're trying to forget," he murmured against my brow.

Another kiss, featherlight. Sacred.

"Trying to fill up a space."

And something in me snapped.

My body moved before my brain did--pressed into his without a thought, hips jerking forward like they were desperate for contact, for friction, for something.

"Fuck, Spence..." My voice cracked. Thin. Barely there. "Can't a guy just be lonely?"

He braced both hands against the wall beside my head, caging me in without touching me. He didn't have to. The heat between us was enough. His eyes flicked to my mouth and stayed there, heavy with something dark and magnetic.

"You know what?" he murmured. Soft. Dangerous.

"Just this once? Sure."

And that--

That was the moment something in me gave.

He wrapped an arm around my waist--not rough, not greedy. Just certain. Like he already knew I was his for the taking. Like I'd already said yes with my silence, with the way I leaned into him like I couldn't stand on my own. And I let him.

I let him.

I didn't say a word when he hailed the cab. Didn't argue when he told me we'd get my car tomorrow. I just climbed in beside him like I belonged there. Because maybe I wanted to. Maybe I needed to.

I leaned against him in the backseat, head settling on his shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like I hadn't been avoiding this exact moment for weeks. His hand gripped my thigh--firm, warm, unshakable--and I didn't push it away.

What the fuck am I doing?

This man had stalked me. Mocked me. Got under my skin so fast it should've scared me.

And it did.

It did.

But I couldn't make myself care. Not when it felt this good to be wanted. Not when it was easier to surrender than to keep pretending I didn't want him too. I looked up at him--at that ridiculous jawline, those eyes that always seemed one second from undressing me, the mouth that kissed like a threat--and I knew. I was already his.

I sighed. Quiet. Defeated.

Goddamn pretty privilege.

Goddamn me, too.

The record scratched when I was supposed to get out of the cab though.

Spencer Briggs' house was obscene.

Full garden. Four-car garage. A fucking marble foyer. Fit for a king--or, apparently, a spoiled billionaire nepo baby CEO with a jawline sharp enough to file taxes on.

I stared--definitely slack-jawed--until he held the door open for me like this was normal.

"No. Nope. Nooope." I turned right around and started power-walking down his fancy-ass driveway lined with ornamental shrubbery. "Not doing this. Can't afford to breathe air in this mansion."

"Hey!" Spencer called after me. One second later, he had an arm around my shoulders. "It's not like that. You're my guest."

"Sure," I scoffed. "I'm a stray you picked up at a club. Congratulations."

But then he tugged me closer. Chin dropped to my shoulder. Voice low, dangerous.

"Are you agreeing to be my pet?"

Jesus H. Christ on the fucking cross.

"Nope. You're drunk. We're not--having this conversation."

Then he spun me so fast I almost lost my footing. And before I could even think, his mouth was on mine.

"Let me make you feel good, pretty boy," he murmured.

His lips ghosted down to my jaw, then my neck. His stubble was deliciously abrasive, and he smelled unfairly good. Like power and lust bottled in Tom Ford.

"I promise I can," he added, and pulled back just enough to meet my eyes--glinting mischief behind all that rich-boy confidence. His hands slid lower, bold, until they found the curve of my ass.

"And if it's your first time on bottom... we'll take it nice and slow."

First time--

Oh. OH. Shit.

I choked on a nervous laugh and tried to get my voice under control. "I--I said I don't--"

"You do with me, pretty boy."

It rolled off him. Dominance. Controlled and complete. The kind that made my skin buzz and my knees just slightly too soft. I wanted to defy him. Toss a snark, grab my shit, walk out like I had the upper hand.

Instead...

I let him pull me into his house.

I let him push me toward his bedroom.

I let him kiss me like the world was ending.

My clothes were gone before I hit the bed. His hands mapped every line of my tattoos like he was learning a new language by heart--each groan, sigh, and whimper something fresh and hungry. And when I finally got his shirt off--

Saw that golden chest. Those ridiculous shoulders.

I half wished he'd blindfold me.

Because holy shit.

Spencer Briggs was the hottest man alive.

He shoved my thighs apart and fit between them like he'd been designed to live there--long limbs, marble muscles, and those goddamn abs carved like some sort of fucking god. His hips? Should've been classified as a weapon. Banned in at least seven countries.

And then his mouth was on mine again.

Every time I tried to think--bite. Lick. Squeeze. He broke my thoughts open like glass. I gasped into the kiss, brain white-hot, and he chuckled low in his throat.

"Still want to run away?"

All I managed was a guttural groan. Coherent thought had left the building hours ago. Running? Not a chance.

But still--

"Fuck," I panted as his teeth scraped across my collarbone, "you."

That pulled an honest laugh from him--low and real and smug as hell.

And that sound? That sound broke me.

He nipped lower, rougher--leaving marks on my chest that bloomed in his wake. I moaned, loud and helpless, heels dragging across the mattress like I was trying to escape. I wasn't. I wouldn't. But fuck if my body didn't try.

Spencer chased me.

Groaning. Vicious. Starving.

His hands caught my wrists, pinned them above my head with one smooth motion--his weight pressing me down, owning me. Nowhere to run. No more witty comebacks. No more pretending I wasn't one wrong breath away from coming undone. My body had already turned traitor--writhing, arching, reaching for him like it knew what came next and wanted to be wrecked by it.

Spencer's mouth traveled lower, trailing heat. Down my chest. Down my stomach. Over the sharp cut of my hips. Each kiss another warning bell I didn't listen to. I should've said something. I should've stopped this. I should've-- Fuck, why wasn't I stopping this?

He sank to his knees between my thighs like he belonged there, and I swear to God, I felt my soul short-circuit. And then he looked at me--head tilted, lips parted, gaze blazing with unspoken promises--and smirked. A fucking smirk. Like he'd already won.

"You get gentle from me just this once, Elliott."

His voice rolled over me like thunder--low, dangerous, and devastating.

"Next time? You'll be on your knees. You'll beg for it. You'll take everything I give you. No arguments. No limits. No escape."

My mouth opened. Nothing came out. My pulse was a drumbeat in my ears. My thoughts blurred into static. I didn't even like bottoming. That wasn't my thing. That wasn't me. So then why the fuck was I hard enough to hurt? Why did the word yes sit behind my teeth, ready to fall out the second he touched me?

And then he did.

His tongue dragged slow and heavy up the length of my cock, and I saw goddamn stars. My hips jolted like they had a mind of their own. I heard someone moan and realized it was me.

"Do you understand?" he asked like it was a rhetorical question. Like the answer wasn't already written all over my face.

"F--fuck," I choked, barely able to breathe. "Yes. Yes. Please."

He chuckled--dark and self-satisfied--before murmuring:

"Good boy."

And I whimpered. Like a goddamn virgin. Like I'd never been touched in my life.

What the fuck was happening to me? I tried to cling to whatever scraps of sanity I had left while I endured Spencer's definition of "gentle."

Which--spoiler alert--was not gentle.

It was precise. Intentional. Designed to ruin me.

Every graze of his tongue, every stroke of his fingers--it was too much. Not enough. I couldn't catch my breath. Couldn't remember my own name. My thighs were trembling. My chest was heaving. I was holding onto the sheets like they were the only thing anchoring me to this plane of existence.

He kept murmuring praise between touches. Kept calling me good--like I was something worth worshiping. And I hated how much I loved it.

I wanted to claw my way out of my own skin. I wanted to curse him out. Shove him off. Demand he stop touching me like he meant it.

Instead, I moaned his fucking name.

Over and over like a broken thing.

My legs locked tight around his shoulders. I wasn't going anywhere.

I was done for.

And when his fingers slid inside me--slow and slick with saliva and crooked just right--I sobbed. Sobbed. Not cute. Not sexy. Raw. Real. Wrecked.

And Spencer? He just watched. Like he was proud of what he'd done to me.

I had never made anyone fall apart like this. I had never thrown someone so hard and fast into ecstasy they had tears streaming down their face. But this--this fucking predator between my legs--had me absolutely destroyed.

I wanted to touch him.

I'd barely gotten a glimpse of him earlier--just heat and motion and teeth as he dragged me into bed--but now? Now I needed him. In my hands, in my mouth, anywhere. I needed something to ground me. To catch my breath. To make sense of this freefall.

Spencer must have seen it in my eyes. He slid up, bringing his cock within reach--and the sight of it nearly gutted me.

He was huge. Thick and hard and glistening at the tip.

Jesus fucking Christ.

That thing belonged in a museum. Or at least have a warning label.

"Tell me you want it, Elliott."

His voice wasn't soft. Wasn't teasing. It was a command. Low. Coiled. Deadly.

"Say it for me."

"Yes. Fucking--yes."

I shoved him back and dropped between his legs. I was very aware that he was letting me. Allowing it. That made me hungrier. He could have pinned me down and taken whatever he wanted--but he didn't. Not yet. He was letting me choose to worship him.

I curled my fingers into his hips, squeezed hard, and looked up. His eyes locked on mine with that predator stillness that made my pulse stutter. I didn't move. Didn't breathe.

Waited.

He nodded.

Permission.

A sound slipped from my throat--somewhere between a moan and a whimper--and I leaned in. Licked once. Then again. Tasted the bead of precum at the tip like it was something sacred.

"Like that," Spencer growled. "Taste what I let you have, pet."

Fuck.

Fuck.

I opened wider and took more. Sank down on him inch by impossible inch until the head hit the back of my throat and I had to tighten every muscle in my body not to flinch.

One of his hands slid into my hair--not pulling. Just resting. Holding. Anchoring.

"Such a pretty boy when you suck my cock, Elliott."

Then he rocked his hips forward--slow, deliberate.

The head brushed deeper, and I fought the urge to gag.

"I want you to take it all. Can you do that?"

No.

Yes.

I don't know.

But the desire to hear him fall apart--hear that voice crack with need--was too strong to resist. I breathed deep through my nose, relaxed my jaw, and took him all the way. His breath hitched. And when he groaned my name--broke it apart like a prayer--I knew I'd do it again. And again. And again.

I started to move--slow at first--dragging him in and out of my throat with deliberate rhythm. Controlled. Methodical.

Perks of being a vocalist?

Throat control.

He groaned before finally growling, "Enough."

Just one word. But it sparked against every nerve I had.

I released him with a wet pop, still practically drooling as I looked up at him, breathing heavily. My lips felt bruised. My chest was heaving, throat aching.

"I knew you'd be so good for me," he purred. Then he was pulling me towards him to catch me in a breathless kiss against my already swollen lips.

He wasn't slow or patient. He was fierce, demanding. Teeth. Tongue. No part of my mouth was safe from him. No part of me.

He fell back. Pawed roughly through a drawer for a condom and lube before ripping it open. Efficient. Urgent.

Then he was back, pulling me onto his lap.

And I was helpless again.

Moaning. Pleading. Raw. Real.

A fucking mess.

His fingers worked me open in a rush. Slick sounds that drove me up the goddamn wall. It wasn't pleasant, but he'd gotten me so worked up all I could think of was the endgame. He had me bouncing on his hand, and my arms wrapped around his neck clinging for dear, fucking life.

"I'm going to make you feel so good, Elliott. You'll never want another cock."

I whimpered into the crook of his neck. All thought. All words. Gone. I swear he had all four fingers in me now. Hitting that place that was turning my soul inside out.

I heard a condom packet rip, the squelch of lube. He lifted my hips and guided me to hover over his cock.

"You're in control. Go as slow as you need, pretty boy," his voice was almost sweet, "But I expect you to take it all. If you can't take it? I'll have to give it."

The head of his cock caught the rim of my hole and I sank down on it before I could stop myself. It was bigger than his fingers. A dull ache. Stretching me. Filling me.

Fuck.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd bottomed.

Was it like this?

I remember hating it, but this? God...

Spencer reached between my legs and wrapped his hand firmly around my neglected cock. He stroked it slowly. "Breath and keep going," he commanded.

It took everything I had, but I did as he said. My hands slid up to his shoulders and squeezed for stability as I let myself sink further down. The wet, dirty sounds we made didn't help. Each new inch a reminder that my skin was on fire, my body was tightening, and my stomach was churning.

"You're doing so well, pet," the praise poured over me like lightning. "Just a little more."

Jesus.

Just a little more?

Already his length was scraping places I'd forgotten existed. Places that made my head drop dizzy and the muscles in my calves and thighs strain, but I forced myself to take it. All of him. Down to the root. Felt him seated deep, right against the place that made me see stars.

A broken, high sound tore from my throat.

Spencer's lips were on my neck instantly--hands fisting in my hair. He angled me back with terrifying ease, half lifting me off, then slamming back inside in a perfect, punishing rhythm.

The drag against my prostate nearly ended me.

I howled, loud and messy, echoing through his stupid marble house.

"S--Spence--!"

Another thrust--

Brutal.

Precise.

Then Spencer rolled us forward, slammed me down into the mattress, and fucked.

Holy--

I gasped, arched, screamed--ugly and breathless--my body bent in half under him, arms scrambling for purchase against slick skin and twisted sheets. But it didn't matter. Nothing could stop it. I was clinging to him like I'd drown if I let go. Nails digging in. Jaw clenched. Thighs trembling.

His arms hooked under my knees and wrenched them wider. Open. Exposed.

I sobbed.

Every thrust found that same unbearable spot inside me--struck it like a match, lit my whole body on fire. Again. And again. And again.

"So fucking good, Elliott," Spencer growled, his voice silk-wrapped violence, dragging me under like a riptide.

He shifted again--more control, more force--and one hand came up to wrap around my throat. Not tight. Not choking. Claiming.

My head dropped back like a fucking offering. His. I was fucking his.

"Fuck--" I gasped.

"You were meant to be mine," he said, darker now. Something rough and possessive tearing through the words.

No.

No. I wasn't.

This wasn't--

This wasn't me.

I wasn't anyone's. That wasn't how I worked. I didn't--

"Be a good boy," he whispered, voice like sin itself, "and come for me."

And somehow--

Somehow--

With Spencer Briggs buried to the hilt inside me, still speaking like he loved every goddamn piece of me I thought unlovable?

I did.

I shattered.

Came with a raw, wrecked wail that scraped itself straight out of my chest. I arched into the bed, body locked and twitching, clenching hard around him--and that was what undid him.

His composure cracked.

His hips stuttered, once--then drove forward again, slower now, heavy and desperate. I could hear the hiss between his teeth, the way his rhythm fell apart as he chased it--

And there was nothing I could do but take it.

________________________________________________________________

*Spencer*

If he could've seen himself--sobbing, trembling, completely unraveled beneath me--he wouldn't have recognized the man in my bed.

And fuck, was he beautiful like that. Ruined. Mine.

Post-orgasm, Elliott looked dazed. Boneless. Every inch of him loose and slick and spent, his chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths as if even air had to earn its way back into his lungs.

His eyes fluttered, trying to refocus. Trying to remember where he was--who he was. I didn't move. Didn't dare. Just watched him in that silence so thick it rang in my ears. Because in that moment, there was no music.

No crowd.

No walls. No city. No past.

Just him.

My pretty boy--shattered and glowing in the low light.

He whimpered when I pulled out. Barely. Soft. A fragile sound, but it grounded him--reminded him of what had just happened. What he'd let happen. With me.

I didn't say anything. Didn't touch him again. Just stayed close and watched his chest rise and fall, slow and shallow.

He blinked hard. Like the world was too bright. Too loud. Like he wasn't sure if I was still here or if he'd imagined it all.

I gave him space.

Because I didn't know which version of Elliott I was going to get next-- The firecracker with a mouth, or the beautiful, broken boy still trying to piece himself together. And God help me... I'd take either. As long as he was still looking at me.

He was quiet. Strangely so, even as I helped him clean up.

He let me pull him into the shower, didn't argue when I coaxed him under the spray. When his knees buckled just slightly, I held him--and he let me.

His fingers clung to my arms like they were the only solid thing left.

But still, no snapping. No jokes. Just... breathing. Like he was listening. Like maybe I was someone he needed. But then:

"Don't think this--"

His voice cracked. Raw and wrecked. Barely there.

He cleared his throat.

"Don't think this is gonna be a thing."

There.

That was the firecracker.

All spark.

No aim.

Defensive. Charming. Irritating as hell.

My mouth tilted into something dangerous. Smug. Teasing. Something guaranteed to make him want to fight. I leaned in, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and murmured-- A perfect bastardization of that soft, barely-there Southern drawl he'd worked so hard to bury:

"It already is, pet."

He bristled instantly. Shoulders stiffened. Feet planted against the tile like he needed ground to fight on. Eyes narrowed. Jaw cocked. Elliott had gone from sweet and shy to hostile in one breath.

But I didn't mind. This was why I liked him. Smart. Frustrated. Impulsive. Fun.

And most of all?

Chaotic.

His stare dropped to my mouth--lingered. Long enough for me to see the hunger buried beneath the fury. Then it shot to the ceiling like he couldn't bear to look at me. His lips moved, silent. A curse maybe. A prayer.

Then:

"There is something seriously fucking wrong with you."

Flat. Deadpan. Almost resigned.

And I laughed. Even without looking at me, the set of his jaw said he wanted to punch me. Probably would've, if he weren't still wrung out and trembling.

"Very possibly," I said, teeth grazing his earlobe.

Then lower. Softer. Right where it would hit:

"Too bad you don't care, right?"

He sucked in a breath. Fast. Sharp. Almost angry.

Perfect.

When he didn't speak, I reached past him to shut off the spray. Gave his shoulder a firm squeeze.

Then I stepped out of the shower--

Flushed. Content. Victorious.

________________________________________________________________

*Elliott*

I woke up to silk sheets and a hangover made of regret.

For one blissful second, I didn't remember where I was. Just warm limbs. A soft mattress. The faint scent of soap clinging to my skin like bad decisions.

Then it hit me.

Spencer.

I shot upright so fast my ribs protested. His arm was slung across my waist, possessive even in sleep. He was still out--bare-chested, unfairly perfect, hair tousled in that "fuck you" way that said he probably looked like this on purpose.

Goddamn him.

My clothes were scattered across the room like the aftermath of a storm. My spine ached. My thighs were sore. And my pride? Yeah. That was hanging somewhere between his nightstand and the floor.

What the fuck had I done?

What the fuck was I still doing here?

I peeled his arm off me slowly, breath caught tight in my throat. He stirred once--just a sleepy shift--but didn't wake. Thank God.

I stumbled out of bed, dressed like a man possessed, and made a beeline for the door. I didn't leave a note. I didn't shoot a text. I was fucking running and not looking back. I barely made it to the hallway when I nearly walked face-first into a man in a pressed shirt and slacks.

"Ah!" he said, startled.

"Shit!" I jumped back like I'd been slapped.

Two seconds passed before I realized he was staring. Then, belatedly, it hit me how this might look.

Bags. Clothes. Disheveled hair.

My blush could've melted through walls.

More embarrassment. Perfect.

Meanwhile, this man--probably Spencer's assistant or butler or something equally skeezy-rich--was having a shit fit trying not to grin.

We stared at each other.

He blinked. Then, slowly--professionally--regained his composure.

"... Mr. Martin, I presume?"

Fuck. Of course he knew my name.

"Don't look so smug about it," I muttered, dragging my fingers through my mess of hair, which now felt like it had been styled by a lawnmower.

A beat passed.

"I was unaware Mr. Briggs had company," he said. There was no judgment in his tone, but I could feel the judgment anyway.

I scoffed, stepping past him. "Of course he has a butler. Fucking 'course he does."

"House manager," the man corrected mildly. There was that smug little smile again.

"Oh, so sorry, house manager," I bit back. "Must've been a long night of rearranging his diamond-studded underwear drawer."

He blinked again. "Actually, that's in the walk-in closet--"

I made a choked noise. "You know what? Don't care."

God, I hope he was joking.

I was practically running down the hall. Fleeing.

Behind me, I heard the man clear his throat. "Would you like me to inform Mr. Briggs you've--"

"Nope!" I snapped over my shoulder.

And with that, I bolted.

The Lyft driver raised an eyebrow when they picked me up off the fucking street--shirt half-tucked, hair a disaster, obviously disheveled. But they didn't ask questions. Like I was gonna let a single goddamn soul know whose house I'd just come from.

Christ. This was humiliating.

I'd never been so relieved to see my shitty little Honda waiting patiently in a parking lot. When I slid behind the wheel and started the engine only then did I let myself feel the tiniest bit safe.

I locked the doors for good measure.

It was nearly 9 o'clock. I had to be at work at 11. That was just enough time to run home and attempt to find some shred of dignity in a fresh pair of socks.

By the time I dragged myself into work, the clock read 10:52.

Eight minutes early. A goddamn miracle, considering I felt like I'd been hit by a luxury-brand train.

I clocked in, grabbed my apron, and made a beeline for the paint counter--only to find Jules already perched on the stool behind it, sipping iced coffee like she wasn't emotionally dead inside like the rest of us.

She took one look at me and nearly choked on her drink.

"Okay," she managed, coughing, "what the fuck is going on? Did someone die?"

"Yes," I deadpanned. "Me."

"Oh, Jesus." She snorted. "Too much to drink or too much...?" She wiggled her eyebrows.

I sighed and slumped against the counter, rubbing my face like that could somehow erase the memory of being called good boy in that low, smug voice that was still echoing in my skull.

"Both," I muttered.

Because honestly?

That was all the confirmation I could give.

The work day dragged. Every time I moved, my muscles screamed at me like I'd lost a fight with a demon and a very expensive mattress. Jules shot me suspicious glances every twenty minutes.

By the time I finally got my break, I had four notifications on my phone. I didn't need to guess who they were from. But I opened them anyway. Because I'm weak. And apparently I hate myself.

Spencer: And here I wanted to feed you breakfast.

Spencer: You can run, but we both know you're still thinking about me.

Spencer: You looked real cute trying to sneak out, by the way.

Spencer: Next time? You say goodbye properly.

I stared at the texts for a full thirty seconds. Heat crawled up my neck.

Next time? There wasn't going to be a "next time" motherfucker.

Smug bastard.

I didn't even bother typing a reply. I just hit the emoji keyboard and sent the only appropriate response.

Me:????

There. Mature. Graceful. Dignified.

I hadn't even finished my energy drink by the time my phone buzzed again.

Spencer: Charming

I left that bitch on read.