Page 23 of Naughty Dreams
Roy’s rejection burned. And hurt. Yeah, okay, DJ had pushed it well past when Roy had flatly told him to leave it alone, but DJ couldn’t stop thinking about him.
No matter his stage persona—or how he’d been acting around Roy—DJ didn’t have trouble with his impulse control. Not usually. But he followed his gut. It was how he and Survival had gotten here. Knowing how they wanted their music to sound and be offered to fans, even when Moss told them it would be a hard sell, to refuse to relinquish control over their musicandget a good record contract.
He thought of a spur-of-the-moment decision they’d made earlier in their career, riding the elation of their first album going platinum. Tal had suggested doing something like U2’s 1987 performance on top of an LA liquor store, only totally spontaneous, no preplanning.
They chose a mini-mart run by a fan, and set up fast on the flat roof with their most portable amps and a minimalist drum kit. As they churned out a short setlist of their best songs, the handful of curious pedestrians grew to several hundred dancing and cheering people.
When the police arrived and told them they couldn’t do that, no permits, inhibiting traffic, et cetera, they’d broken everything down and returned to the bus while waving at the enthusiastic crowd.
Being young and stupid occasionally paid off, because that video went viral on social media, giving the sales of their platinum album an additional boost. Which somewhat mellowed Moss’s stern lecture to all of them.
What DJ most remembered about that day was the police sergeant who followed them onto the bus and sheepishly asked for an autograph for his daughter. He was divorced and saw her every other weekend.
“She’ll be over the moon, DJ,” he’d said, the impassive cop look taken away by a heart wrenching need to give her something that would tell her how much he loved her, even if he couldn’t be under the same roof. “She had me take her to buy your album the first day it came out.”
After he gave the officer the shirt they all signed, plus backstage tickets to the next concert, DJ hoped that girl knew how hard her dad was trying to love her. It wasn’t easy, and it got fucked up more often than not. People didn’t fit together like puzzle pieces. More like jagged glass from different broken vessels.
He wondered how hard he’d have to grind against Roy’s edges for a fit.
Since that night, Roy had been going out of his way to keep their face-to-face interactions to a minimum. Even at the Miami concert, twenty thousand people strong, and the crazy stream of afterparties.
He had just met Roy. And DJ wasn’t an idiot. He knew the mesmerizing and brain-numbing side effect of attraction and sexual desire. Coupled to the Dom/sub thing, that lack of judgment tripled. But for right now…
Damn it, why hadn’t Roy just said yes?
Because it was his right to say no. He’d made that clear, that day in the dressing room.When a Dom tells you no, it means really fucking no.
DJ’s stomach had flipped like a pancake thrilled that it was about to be eaten. He winced. That definitely wasn’t going into a song.
Fine, DJ wasn’t going to chase him. At least not tonight. He had other plans. His personal interests aside, he had a new song in his head, and that song was telling him where he needed to go this evening.
After Roy had left his suite to take up a post outside, DJ had showered and prepared for bed. Though he didn’t need any other part of his body throbbing, he’d surfed some BDSM stuff. Maybe he could stroke his cock to a slow climax that didn’t jar his shoulder. With some ibuprofen on board, and some stretches, it should be fine by tomorrow anyway.
When Adam Lambert had showed up under his search, he’d clicked on the link to his AMA performance of “For Your Entertainment.”
DJ remembered it, but the overt BDSM tones to the choreography, and how Adam sang the song, started DJ’s creative wheels turning in a way they hadn’t then. As a verse and a possible drum solo introduced itself, he put the ideas down in his bedside notebook.
He knew the signs of a song meant to be written, so while that was all he got that night, the rest would be waiting for him when he walked through other doors.
Maybe the doors he intended to go through tonight.
The Zone was a Miami kink club with a stellar reputation. The price tag and absurd level of vetting for a simple guest visit reinforced it. Unfortunately, that vetting required more advance notice than he had.
He’d asked Moss, their miracle worker, if he could get around it. “I have a new song idea,” he told him, and showed him the AMA video. “I want to get some more inspiration.”
“That performance caused controversy. Which added to the astronomical sales of the single.”
“It’s my goal in life for you to have a private island and a harem of a hundred adoring women.”
Moss grinned. “Let me see what I can do.”
No surprise, he’d been able to swing a guest pass for the night, but DJ was required to have a face-to-face with the primary owner.
So here he was, in the limo making its way through congested Miami traffic. Because of the thunderous crowd at the show, his eardrums were still numb, so G put a hand on his knee to draw his attention back to their current conversation, aka the friendly war of wills.
“I’m not letting you go in by yourself.”
“I want some time on my own.” He tried not to sound irritated. “You spoke to the owner yourself. The membership and staff are extensively vetted. And with this,” he gestured to the mask he’d brought, “no one is going to know me.”
