Smack-dab in the center of my vision: Cade’s ass—more accurately, Cade’s ass crack. Not too hairy, not too pimply: just right. Goldilocks and the Three Bares. (I daresay I would’ve preferred the full-moon view, but I didn’t dare complain.) Cade, crouched on the floor, hands shoulder-width apart, was doing a messily modified version of Downward Dog. When I slipped inside the room, silently closing the door behind me, he didn’t even look up (probably because the sound of my steel-booted approach was hard to miss).

“Stay the fuck away from me, banshee. I’m doing my deep breathing exercises.” To illustrate this point, he gusted out a noisy exhalation. “It’s either this or punch you in the face.”

Even a few feet away, bro smelled like a wasted ashtray. I realized he was skunk-drunk and had likely smoked a dozen post-gig cigarettes.

Crossing my arms, I grilled, “How many shots have you done? Five? Ten?”

“Why did you pretend to be my friend?” he asked, ignoring my question. “That’s the part I don’t get.”

This was starting to feel like a very unpleasant case of been there, done that, got the T-shirt (and the tattoo). Briefly I imagined Cade’s ass crack inked on my bicep, cheeks clenching when I flexed. Ha!

“Like I told Lash, I didn’t pretend—”

“I mean, I’ve gone over all the possible reasons in my head, and none of them seem to fit,” Cade babbled, clearly drunk and ill at ease. He slumped to the floor, banging his forehead on the concrete. “You don’t make sense.”

I tossed a bitter smile at his backside. “What can I say? I’m an enigma.”

Rolling on his side, he slurred, “You’re so sch-schad…sad. So fucking pitiable. I really feel sh-shorry for you, Edan.”

I glared at him. “You should feel sorry for yourself. After all, you let me humiliate you on stage.”

“Isn’t that what you wanted? To humiliate me—to punish me for believing I was the only one “immune” (his air quotes were so Lash-like, my gut knotted up) to your gay?” He paused, then amended, “Game."

After pivoting on my heel, I grabbed the door handle. “Sober up, fool.”

He was on me quicker than I thought possible, grabbing the back of my shirt, yanking the collar until I fell backward. I smelled his hot, angry, alcohol-laced breath.

“This isn’t over,” he spat.

“The hell it isn’t!” Twisting my body I dropped low, attempting to slip out of his death grip, but Cade grabbed my right hand—the one holding the doorknob—and peeled it off the metal with as easily as if he were ripping tape off a dispenser.

“Fuck you.”

After spinning me around, he yanked me to his chest. Breathing hard, he stared at me through red-rimmed eyes.

“You—you—” Then he smashed his mouth into mine like he was trying to mortally injure me, teeth gnashing, tongue lashing.

What in the actual fuck …?! It was happening. After nine years of waiting, it was on .... and Cade sucked at kissing—until I took control of his oral assault, which was easier than trying to escape. I bit his lower lip and he drove me backwards into the door, brutally pressing into me. When our knees collided, I winced.

“You’re hurting me,” I barked against his softer-than-expected lips.

“Not enough,” he countered, voice muffled by my questing mouth.

He tasted like straight-up debauchery: stage sweat, Marlboro Mediums, and Canadian Club. Kissing him with greater finesse than he'd thus shown himself capable of, I delighted in his surprised groan when I stuck my thigh between his legs and trapped his half-hard cock in place. I may look delicate, but I’m no fragile butterfly; the guys I take to bed tend to prefer me rough around the edges. It comes naturally—as do they. Hehe.

Seemingly reading my thoughts, Cade grabbed my hair hard enough to make me moan; then found a clever way to use his tongue. I drew his fat bottom lip into my mouth and sucked on it. In response, he nipped my chin. I fondled his ass and swallowed his sexy sigh with another demanding French kiss. I loved every steamy, sloppy second of it: the way his big paws manhandled me, the moans and sighs escaping his lips in between frantic kisses, the thick ache throbbing from his cock to mine … mm. It was deliciously excruciating; maddeningly unbearable.

Gasping, I pried my lips away from his. “I need more than just”—I rubbed my still-clothed, brick-solid erection against his inner thigh—“friction.”

“Huh?” he muttered, eyes slipping shut as he blindly sought my mouth’s humid oasis.

I pulled his hips flush against mine, delighting in his part-protesting, part-pleading moan. “Let’s get a room—in a different hotel.”

His breath hitched. “You’re meeting Ashley, remember?”

“Not anymore.” Pausing the heavy petting, I asked, “How did you know that?”

“He told me before the show, genius.”

Suddenly he let go of my hair and stumbled away from me, rubbing his hands on his jeans like he had just finished playing in the dirt. “Before your little show.”

“You put on quite the show yourself.”

Restlessly he ran his fingers through his tousled locks. “I was an unwilling participant in your fanservice.”

“But what about just now?” I stared pointedly at his crotch. “You’re hardly an innocent bystander.”

Adjusting his (sadly flagging) erection, Cade put more distance between us. “We can’t do this.”

“Too late for that.”

“Well, we can’t continue. This is all kinds of wrong.” He shoved his hands into his pockets and substantiated the most in-your-face cock adjustment I’d witnessed since shower time in the high school locker room.

“You weren’t saying it was wrong when your tongue was jammed halfway down my throat. In fact, you didn’t say anything at all. You couldn’t speak—you were too busy dry humping me.”

He blushed. “Screw you.”

“Love to,” I shot back.

“Duh. It’s so fucking obvious, dude. After tonight’s gig, now everyone knows.”

“And what about you?” Aiming a finger at his chest, I scoffed. “Like everyone hasn’t also figured you out by now. You might as well have dropped trow and spread your legs on stage! Thou doth protest too much, yo.”

I always knew that a partially accurate Shakespearean quote would apply to a real-life scenario at some point in my life. Pity it proved relevant at this moment—I would have much preferred to fuck the protest out of Cade (or have him fuck it into me, an equal-opportunity switch), rather than to whip out the ole wisdom of William S. during an instance of inferior rebuttal.

Cade shook his head in a lame attempt to negate my totally valid point. “I’m not horny for your dong. You must have me confused with Ashley.”

I failed to point out the fact that a few minutes ago, he’d basically attempted to fuck me while still fully clothed. (Arguing with drunk people never works anyway.)

“So, what’s the issue? You can’t sleep with me because I fucked Lash?”

“I can’t sleep with you because I don’t want to!”

“Why, because you’re supposedly straight?” I gagged.

“Because I won’t do that. He’s my best friend.”

Leaning forward, I lowered my voice. “Why are you fighting this?”

“I shouldn’t have let you; I should have stopped you when ...” he trailed off, possibly realizing he’d kissed me first, but more likely forgetting what he was saying in the middle of his sentence.

Rolling my eyes, I said, “This isn’t going to go away just because you regret it. I know you, Cade. You’re not capable of denying yourself of anything you really want. You're a pleasure-seeker.”

He pointed a muscular index finger at me. “Don’t pull any shit like you did onstage tonight ever again. And stop coming on to me.”

I took a step toward him and pushed my chest into his outstretched finger. “Don’t forget to stuff a pillow in your mouth to muffle the screams of my name when you’re pulling your pud solo tonight!”

“And that’ll be different from your night how?” he hissed, scooting around me to wrestle with the doorknob.

“Touché,” I muttered at his fine ass as he exited the storage room faster than necessary.

You idiot, Ashley’s voice mocked inside my head. No one wants to be with someone who has a black hole in place of a soul. You’ll always be alone.

Instead of screaming at the night sky and bemoaning my fate as the guy who almost succeeded in fully seducing Cade, but ultimately failed, I formulated an alternate plan: call a cab, find a bar, and get shitfaced.

Being sober; being alone … tonight, neither were viable options for this sexually frustrated hottie. Unfortunately, referring to myself in overly confident third person didn’t ease the blow (that Cade wouldn’t blow me). Nuts.