Hell on Wheels (A Bluewater Bay Story)

Caution: The following details may be considered spoilerish. Click on a label to reveal its content.

Heat Wave: 5 - Very explicit love scenes

Erotic Frequency: 3 - Moderate

Genre: comedy, contemporary, romance

Gender: cisgender

Orientation: gay

Pairing: male/male

Age: 20s, 30s

Ending: happily ever after

Tone: humorous, sweet

Themes: celebrity / fame, cheating, commitment, disability / disfigurement, family, financial gap / class disparity, friends to lovers, marriage, self-discovery / self-reflection

Kinks:

Era: contemporary

Settings: America, Washington (state)

Careers: actor / media personality / entertainer, blue collar

Species:

Chapter One

As Nash leaned in to each sharp turn, his heart lodged in his throat. His matte-black Ducati EVO roared over the damp tarmac, eating up Highway 112 between Port Angeles and Bluewater Bay. The weather had lived down to everyone’s expectations. Deep, silent fog obscured everything but the brief illumination of his headlight—a bright sliver slicing through the empty dark.

Misty rain spattered intermittently, just to thumb its nose at him. He plunged through it, wind whistling over his leathers. There was no one to see what he was doing, no one to remark on his lack of common sense. There was nothing for miles but the roar of his engine, the darkness, and the rush.

In the blank oblivion of night, Nash was free to pursue guilty pleasures, whether it was drink or speed or the occasional trick in the city. By morning he’d be home to eat breakfast at the scarred Formica table with his family. He’d find out what his pop was working on and talk his sister Shelby through whatever math problems had her on the ropes this week. He’d see that she got to school okay. He’d even text his twin Healey to give him a ration about his latest boyfriend, Ford. Pop could make jokes about that all day long.

A few more breathless miles passed under his wheels before he almost careened into a Mercedes SLK roadster parked on the shoulder. As he shifted his weight one way, then the other, adrenaline flooded his veins. His muscles tensed painfully, and he nearly laid the bike down before he got it under control. He just managed to whizz safely around the small silver car.

Thank God the driver had been flashing his hazard lights, or he’d have plowed right into it.

He brought the bike to a halt some hundred yards ahead and flipped his visor up, taking deep gulps of air to compose himself. Visibility was definitely getting worse.

The stranded driver was utterly alone on an isolated strip of road, and Nash couldn’t have lived with himself if he’d just driven off without seeing if he could do anything to help. He turned his bike around and rode back to the parked car.

Nash hiked his bike onto its kickstand and pulled his helmet off, catching the familiar perfume of ocean and evergreens.

The driver stuck his head out his window. Despite the gloom, he was wearing a ball cap and shades.

Sunglasses at night? In this weather?

This guy had to be from the Wolf’s Landing production. Since they’d started filming the werewolf show in Bluewater Bay, that ball-cap-and-shades look had become a kind of uniform. The Hollywood people wore it to maintain the pretense they could go among the flannel-and-denim denizens of Washington with no one the wiser. Yeah, right. ’Cause everyone from Bluewater Bay wore thousand-dollar hiking boots.

Some of the locals had started wearing the Hollywood “uniform” in the hopes of getting comped in bars and restaurants by mistake. Stupid, really, because local businesses were all for charging the Hollywood people double if they could get away with it.

The man said something Nash couldn’t hear.

Nash gave him a thumbs-up and, ignoring all the warnings he’d ever given Shelby about strangers and isolated places, stepped over to knock on the passenger-side window. The tinted glass rolled down slowly.

“You got car trouble?” Nash’s words collided with the scent of leather and luxury. He got a glimpse of the driver’s hands and smiled. They were lean and elegant, resting carefully on the wheel. Beautiful. Nash was a hand man all the way, and he could just picture those soft, supple fingers wrapping around his—

“I called for service.”

The crisp British accent was a momentary surprise. The man surprised him too. He was pretty hot from what Nash could see, lean and pale with dark hair under that hat. His high cheekbones and long, straight nose belonged on a coin.

“You’re having it towed?”

“It’s a rental. They’re bringing a new car to replace it.” The man’s pursed lips were full enough, soft enough in that arrogant face to make Nash take a second look and then a third.

Nash’s inner horndog said, Gimme.

“Do you mind if I ask what happened?” Nash rested his arms on the passenger door and tried not to leer. “I know a thing or two about cars.”

“This car?” The implication it was way out of Nash’s league stung. “It’s a computer on wheels. I doubt there’s anything—”

“Humor me. I’m Nash Holly, by the way.” Nash took off his gloves and held out his hand.

The driver removed his sunglasses before giving it a firm shake. Oh, wow. Dude had eyes like a cloudy sky. Clear and cool and gray. They were so light they appeared silver in the faint glow of the dashboard.

“Spencer.”

“Nice to meet you, Spencer.” Nash held on a little too long.

Spencer pulled away. “About an hour ago, the light came on telling me the car was too low, so I edged over to the curb. When I started it up again a few minutes later, the warning light was gone and everything seemed fine, so I kept driving.”

Nash nodded. Waited, because he knew what was coming. “But?”

“But since then the same thing has happened every ten miles or so. I finally pulled over and called for service.”

“It’s probably your suspension system. That custom ride is the result of what they call Active Body Control. It compensates for terrain changes.”

Spencer sighed. “I knew this car was compensating for something.”

Nash grinned at that. He backed away and squatted so he could watch the body of the car rise into position. “Fire her up. Let’s see where your problem is.”

“Okay.” Spencer did as he asked, then shouted out the window, “The dreaded light still informs me my car is too low.”

“Put it in gear?”

The car growled and shifted.

Nash walked around to get a look at the other side and, sure enough, the left front fender was low. The ABC ride was cool, no doubt about it, but when the suspension went, it went, and you couldn’t drive the car without the risk of damaging the undercarriage. He walked back to lean in the passenger-side window again.

“The left front isn’t responding to the system. You’re lucky it’s a rental and you don’t have to shell out for repairs. It would cost you a bundle.”

“It’s not the money. It’s the bloody inconvenience. I can’t be without a car. It’s the only freedom I’m likely to have until—” Spencer snapped his mouth closed. Probably worried he’d let too much slip.

“I hear you. Sometimes it’s nice to get away. You’re from the werewolf show, aren’t you?”

Spencer narrowed his eyes. “Why do you ask?”

Nash had seen a lot of photographers buzzing around town on motorcycles—nimble paparazzi who made their living invading the actors’ privacy. “I’m not press or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m just out for a ride. I like to get away sometimes too.”

“That’s why I enjoy having a car.” Spencer relaxed a little. “Yes, I’m with the show. I’m not one of the regular cast members, but I have a recurring role. I’ve been filming here for a few weeks.”

“That’s cool. I live in Bluewater Bay. I see the production people all the time.”

“You probably resent the industry people invading, don’t you?”

“I don’t know. It’s good for business, but it’s a little weird seeing all the strangers roaming the streets. My sister goes apeshit every time she thinks she sees one of the actors. And the werewolf tourists . . . Don’t get me started.” He shook his head. “Those people are nuts.”

“Sorry.”

“You should be sorry.” Nash grinned. “You come up here with all your Hollywood cash to steal our womenfolk with your wicked, big-city ways . . .”

Spencer lifted his left hand to display a diamond-studded wedding band. “Your women are safe with me.”

“I guess.” Nash was mildly disappointed at the sight of the ring. There was a Mrs. Spencer, then. Too bad. “But you know, a mere wedding ring doesn’t stop a whole lot of people these days.”

“It stops me.”

“Yeah, it would stop me too, if I was married,” Nash agreed almost regretfully. “It stops me from hitting on the espoused. Even the affianced are off-limits. I don’t poach.”

“Glad to hear it. That’s rare these days.”

“Who wants somebody else’s cheater anyway?” The moon broke free of a thick wad of cloud, causing light to fall over the shiny expanse of Spencer’s hood. “So you called for service? How long ago?”

“Twenty minutes or so. Not long.”

Nash looked both ways along the deserted road. “Could take a while.”

“I don’t have much choice.”

Nash tilted his head, the better to see under the brim of Spencer’s ball cap. “You want some company while you wait?”

Spencer hesitated before shaking his head. “I think I’ll be fine here.”

“Sure.” Nash nodded. What had he expected? That some stranger would invite him in and they’d play Rock, Paper, Scissors until the tow truck got there?

“Thanks for asking.”

“Okay, but just so you know, I’m a guy with a bike, not some outlaw biker or anything. See?” Nash turned halfway so Spencer could look at the back of his jacket. “No skulls, no colors. Nothing scary.”

“I never thought—”

“But anyway . . . Who do you play on Wolf’s Landing? If I don’t find out, my sister will never forgive me.”

“I play Delaine Romanov.” His grin turned, well, wolfish. “The big, bad wolf.”

“Subtle. What does he do on the show?”

“He makes trouble.”

“Oh yeah?” Nash grinned at that. This man didn’t seem the trouble-maker type. He looked more like an Ivy League lawyer. Fancy office. Designer suits. “Delaine. What’s your story?”

“I’m one of the hidden royals—werewolf members of the Romanov dynasty who managed to hide and escape the revolution.”

That didn’t ring any bells. But then, even though his sister talked about the show constantly, he mostly tuned her out. “So you’ve been alive all that time?”

“No. I’m a descendant. My family has been living in Canada, biding its time, amassing wealth through various criminal means. My job is to muscle in on the Washington pack to expand our power base into America. There’s a tragic love story in my past. I’m a cold-blooded killer who is kind to widows and orphans.”

“Oh, I see now. My sister probably eats that up like Skittles. You’ll hate me for asking, but can I get a picture? Just so I can show her I met you? She’ll blow a gasket.”

Wariness filled Spencer’s eyes again. “A picture.”

“Yeah.” Nash took out his phone and fiddled with it. “Shelby’s Tumblr is all about that show. Werewolves on My Mind. That’s her. See?”

Spencer took the phone from him and scrolled through the entries. “Some of these pictures are of me.”

“Really? Which ones?”

Spencer turned the phone around so Nash could see.

Nash gasped at the sight of Spencer’s head stuck on some steroid-enhanced porn star’s body—totally naked except for the strategically placed skull hiding his junk. “My sister posted that?”

“The picture’s been manipulated.”

“Well, obviously that’s not your body, but she’s fifteen years old.” Nash fumed. “She has no business posting naked—”

“Wait. I don’t disagree, but for the record, what makes you so sure that’s not my body? I’m not exactly a troll.”

“Holy cow. I thought she was making up stories about that show for fun. I thought she was still acting out werewolf weddings with her little pony dolls. I had no idea she was getting into stuff like this.”

Spencer frowned at him. “I’m not saying I’d ever pose like that, but if I did, I wouldn’t exactly suck at it.”

“Yeah, sure.” Nash took his phone back and scrolled through more pictures. Sure enough, many were R-rated. Nothing X-rated yet, but still . . . “Wait until I get home. Pop and I are going to have a talk with her about the human body and why at her age she is better off appreciating it clothed.”

A picture of the real Spencer would be good for her. He unleashed his librarian-tested, teacher-approved Say yes face—the same expression that got him through language arts in high school despite the fact he barely read anything more literary than Cycle World.

“C’mon. Can I get one quick picture? Once I get over the shock of seeing my little sister’s online spank-bank I’ll never forgive myself if I don’t.”

“Her what?”

“Never mind.” Nash gave up his most winning smile. “I can’t promise you won’t end up on her blog, but at least you’ll be wearing clothes.”

Spencer laughed at that. He took off his cap and ran long fingers through his sleek black hair. “All right, turn on the video and let’s make a movie.”

“Really?”

“Sure. You stopped to help me, didn’t you? It’s the least I can do.”

Nash got out his phone. He pressed record, then nodded for Spencer to start. The next thing he knew, he wasn’t leaning in the window of a Mercedes and talking to some English actor anymore—he was watching a ruthless gangster werewolf say hello to his little sister.

“Shelby? Is that your sister’s name?” Spencer eyed the camera lens as though he were planning to incinerate it using nothing more than the power of his evil. “Hello, Shelby.”

That anyone could say hello and still be so perfectly menacing chilled Nash to the bone. There was something powerful inside Spencer, some unseen switch that made him so scary Nash had to steady his camera hand on the window frame to keep it from shaking. Spencer’s soulless gaze was electrifying.

“Family is important, don’t you think? Family is everything. Your brother is currently enjoying my hospitality. I hope you’re giving a great deal of thought to the proposition I put before you. I’d hate to see anything happen to him. He’s really quite . . . beautiful.”

The camera loved Spencer. Every chiseled plane of his face looked carved from marble. Every shadow held deep mystery. Nash bobbled the phone in his sweat-slick hand but managed to catch it again. He stopped the recording with an embarrassed chuckle.

“That’s going to be kind of hard to explain if it falls into the wrong hands.”

“Ha.” Spencer barked a laugh and presto change-o, he turned back into an ordinary human being. “That’s a scene from last season. Shelby will recognize it if she’s a fan.”

“Sure.” Nash felt like an idiot. “I recognize you now, without the hat. I’ve seen your picture enough.”

“Oh Lord.” Spencer raked his hands through his hair again. “That’s the part you don’t think about when you sign the contract.”

“Does it ever bother you that your image is all over?”

“It’s a trade-off.” Spencer shrugged. “I get to do what I love, but I pay for that with my privacy.”

Spencer said privacy with a short “i” sound, which was kind of easy on the ear. The light patter on the roof of the car indicated rain was about to start coming down. Cold water built up in the collar of Nash’s jacket. “I guess I’d better go before the interior of your car gets soaked.”

“Oh hell.” Spencer unlocked the door. “You shouldn’t ruin your nice leather suit. Get in.”

Chapter Two

“Gimme a second.” Nash ran off into the fog. Spencer watched him remove a folded plastic sheet from his backpack. Somehow he got it secured over his motorcycle. Then he sped back, diving inside the car just as rain started coming down in torrents.

“My nice leather suit?” Nash pulled a threadbare hand towel from his pack and mopped his face.

“It is nice,” Spencer offered. “Very leathery. You don’t want to get that wet. Won’t it shrink and squeeze you like a python?”

“No. Weather is why I wear it.”

“I see.”

Spencer hadn’t realized how awkward things might get until a full minute ticked by without either of them saying a word. A single minute could feel like forever if one spent it sitting enclosed in a car with a damp stranger.

Nash kept his hands clasped in his lap and stared straight ahead. Maybe he felt awkward too.

Spencer couldn’t take the silence any longer. “Have you always lived in Washington?”

Nash nodded. “Born and raised in Bluewater Bay. Where are you from?”

“England.” Spencer relaxed a little now they were on firm conversational ground. “Watlington, specifically.”

“What’s it like there?”

“Like you’d imagine.” He turned the CD player on, and one of Chopin’s nocturnes started to play softly in the background. “Ye olde England. Plenty of green, rolling hills, cottages, and cricket. It’s near Oxford.”

“Must be nice.”

“It is, although I don’t get home much. There’s no reason to go, really, now my parents are gone. What do you do?”

“I’m a mechanic. My family owns Holly’s Haus of Imports.”

“So you were trolling for work when you stopped?” Spencer teased. “I suspected you had ulterior motives from the first. It was either my car or my virtue.”

Nash tilted his head and grinned slyly. “Your car’s safe.”

Christ, Nash was a good-looking man. Early twenties. Built like a fighter. Dark hair, blue eyes. His frank, appraising gaze caused a shiver to run down Spencer’s body. Wait . . .

“Was that . . .? Are you coming on to me?”

“I’ve got a bad habit of yanking people’s chains.” Leather creaked when Nash shifted. The sound was unusually arousing. “I was out of line. We’re cool, right? Tell me about your wife. Does she come along when you go on location?”

“It’s not—” Spencer closed his eyes and let his head relax against the headrest. “I’m no longer married, really. My husband and I are in the middle of a divorce.”

Nash stared at him, one eyebrow lifted. “Husband?”

“Yes, husband. Is that a problem?”

“Not for me.” Nash’s teeth dented his plump lower lip before he said, “My pop’s always telling me to find one of those.”

“Really?” So Nash had been hitting on him?

“He still believes in marriage, even though his last one was enough to put me off the idea forever. What happened to yours, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“He left me for a woman. She’s pregnant.”

Nash’s lips parted on a sharp intake of breath. “That’s some epically cold stuff, right there . . . Wait.” Spencer saw the moment Nash made the connection. “This has been in the tabloids, right? She’s some big actress? My sister talks about it all the time. That’s you?”

“That’s me. The man everyone talks about.” He punctuated his words with a sad little wave of his fingers. “Mr. Spencer Kepler-Constantine, formerly of New York ‘it couple’ Spencer and Peter Kepler-Constantine, cordially invites you to the utter destruction of his life. RSVP.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“So you’re separated now?”

“Yes.”

“Any chance you’ll get back together?”

Is there any chance? No. Right then he could say no, there was no chance. “None.”

“Well, that’s too bad.” Nash sat quietly for a moment before he spoke again. “But marriages fail. Hollywood marriages fail spectacularly and at a more frequent rate, so you’re not alone.”

“It does seem to be a losing proposition. I’m not sure why I expected ours to succeed.”

Nash tilted his head. Quirked a shy smile. “You got a backup plan?”

What was it about the way Nash looked at him? Nash was kind of a rogue, wasn’t he? He’d made his intentions very clear. He’d said he didn’t poach, but as soon as Spencer had confessed the truth, Nash’s eyes had gone from indifferent to interested in a big way. Spencer suddenly found it hard to breathe. “Not really.”

“Because the way I see it, now would be a good time to make a list of all the things you’ve wanted to do but couldn’t because you were married . . . then do them.”

“What, like a bucket list?”

“If you want to call it that, go ahead. When my stepmom left, my dad started making a list. It gave him something to do besides wallow.”

“What sort of things were on his list?”

“Well, one thing was my stepmom hated fish. While they were married, we never even ate tuna salad. And forget fishing—out of the question. For a while after she left, we went fishing every weekend.” Nash leaned in. The movement made that sexy little leather sound again. “You have something like that for your list?”

“Peter wouldn’t let me eat eggs.”

“Eggs?” Nash frowned. “Who doesn’t like eggs?”

“If I ate eggs, he’d make me brush and floss before he’d let me anywhere near him.”

“What a dick.”

“I can’t blame him—even the smell of a hard-boiled egg made him sick to his stomach.”

“Hard-boiled eggs don’t even smell.”

“Exactly. And I love eggs Benedict. He let me order them from room service on our honeymoon. We shared two bottles of champagne.” Spencer closed his eyes. His thoughts drifted back to their candlelit honeymoon cottage. To the scent of tropical flowers flowing in on the sea breeze. To gauze curtains moving like ghosts while he and Peter made love in the massive bed. He opened his eyes and found rain obscuring the rapidly fogging windows of his rented car.

You couldn’t get much further from a tropical paradise than that.

He sighed. “That seems like a long time ago, but it was less than a year.”

Nash propped his hands on the console. “So okay, you’re going to get yourself some eggs Benedict, right? Because now the dish is on your list.”

The moment carried an odd intimacy. Spencer felt Nash’s breath on his cheek. “There are probably a number of things I can do now . . .” He let the words trail away as if they didn’t matter. As if his heart wasn’t rocketing around in his rib cage and his pulse wasn’t drumming in his ears.

“Yeah?” Nash ran a light finger over Spencer’s forearm. His touch was so delicate that if Spencer hadn’t seen Nash’s fingers traveling down the sleeve of his sweater, he might not even have felt it. As it was, the light caress made the hair on his arm stand up and beg for more.

Spencer let out the breath he’d been holding and lifted his gaze to meet Nash’s.

“This okay?” Nash deepened his contact with Spencer’s arm.

“Yes.”

Nash shot him a knowing smile. “Maybe you can put me on that list, huh?”

Unable to form words, Spencer nodded.

“That a yes?” Nash asked. “Can I touch you, Spencer?”

“Why?” He let the word rush out. “I-I’m truly not ready for—”

“I don’t want it to mean anything. It’s just touch. Feels good, right?”

Spencer swallowed hard. The whisper of a sigh behind the word yes told its own story.

“Maybe I’d like to make you feel good.” Those light fingers found his inseam, just above his knee. “May I touch you?”

Spencer shifted, letting his legs fall open. “All right.”

“Are you sure?”

Nash’s hand stopped a breath away from Spencer’s balls, and all he could think about was how it would feel to have a man touch him again.

Can I let a man who isn’t Peter touch me?

No fair. No fair. Peter was gone, and he was alone, and he could still hear Peter’s voice in his head saying the words Love, honor, cherish.

To hell with Peter.

“Yes.” He whispered the word. “I’m sure. I’m sure.”

Nash gave a soft chuckle and glanced around the confined space. “Okay, Spencer. But I’m telling you now, this is officially the crappiest Mercedes model for making out in.”

***

How is this happening?

Spencer-Delaine whatever was all planes and shadows, head tilted, just a breath away. He looked like he wanted to be kissed, like he needed it, and who was Nash to argue with something like that when it was what he wanted too?

He pressed the lightest, softest kiss to Spencer’s lips, and Spencer startled, surprise and something more, something shaky and fearful rising between them.

“Whoa.”

“Sorry.” Nash immediately backed away. “Sorry. I don’t know what—”

“I . . . Kissing is probably . . . Why did you do that?”

Nash froze. “I wanted to, I guess. If you don’t kiss, that’s fine.”

Spencer let his head fall against the headrest. “I do kiss. I spent nearly an hour yesterday kissing someone over and over until we got the take just right.”

“But kissing a stranger in your car?”

“Feels . . . wrong.”

“That’s fine, Spencer.”

Spencer gripped the wheel in his fists. “I’m not being precious. I haven’t kissed a man since Peter. I didn’t know I’d have this reaction.”

“I said it’s fine. Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” The word was whispered.

Nash unzipped his jacket and shrugged it off. There wasn’t much room to maneuver. He ran a hand over the sleeve of Spencer’s sweater. “I like the way this feels.”

“Cashmere.” Spencer glanced down at Nash’s hand.

“It’s so soft. But I’d rather . . .” Nash dropped his hand back into Spencer’s lap, lightly cupping his balls. Spencer’s cock surged in response. “Oh yeah. Look at that.”

Spencer squirmed. “Wh-what if someone drives by?”

“It’s late, the weather is terrible, and we’re not exactly on a main highway here. If someone comes by, we’ll tell them we’re waiting for a tow.”

“That’s the truth.”

“Exactly.”

“Are you always this . . . impulsive?”

“I’ve been told, yeah.”

“But—”

Nash laid his finger over Spencer’s lips. “If you’ve changed your mind, just say so. No problem, okay?”

“I haven’t.”

“Okay. Then let me give you something else to think about.”

Levi’s 501s. The original button fly. Cool. Nash dug beneath the denim to slip his hand inside the softness of Spencer’s boxer briefs. He found Spencer’s cock, gratified by a little shiver that sped through Spencer’s body. He was working blind, finding everything by feel, stretched over the console like some horny high school kid.

An earthquake of arousal rumbled through his body.

With one hand, he tested the size and weight of Spencer’s dick. Thick, not too long. Uncut. Hard and slick with pre-cum and sweat. He practically gasped at every touch.

With his other hand, Nash found Spencer’s tight balls and the strip of sensitive skin behind them, the pucker of his—

“Whoa.”

“Is that a ‘stop’?”

“No.” Spencer huffed a deep breath. Squirmed so his dick sprang free. “Not necessarily.”

“A ‘go slow’?”

“God, yes. Please let this last . . .” Spencer slid down and gave Nash access to more of the goods.

Nash continued slowly, stroking and caressing Spencer’s body, watching every sensation manifest on his expressive face. As Spencer dropped the anxious look he’d been wearing, Nash smiled. Spencer gave up a groan of pure pleasure.

“Oh.”

“That’s right. Relax.” Nash wasn’t in any hurry, so he worked Spencer patiently. He molded Spencer’s balls and jacked his dick, letting the urgency build, keeping him on a low simmer until Spencer’s hips started rocking up into his hand, demanding more.

“C’mon, pretty boy,” Nash urged. “Show me how you like it.”

Spencer wrapped his fingers around Nash’s, and they took a few strokes together. Spencer seemed to like a little more pressure—a little twist over the fat, dark head. Nash was happy to oblige just to hear the sexy man-purr leave Spencer’s throat when he got it right. With his other hand he gave Spencer’s pucker a nudge and those pretty ice-cold eyes rolled back in his head.

“Yeah,” Spencer panted, driving his cock up into Nash’s fist. “Just like that.”

“Got it. It’s okay. Let it go, sugar.” Expressions played over Spencer’s handsome face—base desire, pleasure, urgency, necessity, and at last, bliss, when that tight little rosebud of skin clutched Nash’s finger and cum splashed from Spencer’s cock.

While he was still pulsing with release, Spencer hooked his hand around Nash’s neck and hauled him halfway over the console. Caught by surprise, Nash almost lost his rhythm.

Apparently kissing wasn’t off the table after all.

Spencer parted his lips, and his tongue sought entry. Nash tilted his head so he could grant it. Spencer deepened the kiss, and Nash surrendered like he’d been made for it. Despite starting out desperate, Spencer’s kisses became searching and sweet. Tender, even. As Nash pulled his hand away and discreetly wiped jizz on his towel, his smile coaxed a similar grin out of Spencer. He caught Nash’s jaw and continued kissing him as if the handjob had been antipasto and kissing was the main dish.

Nash took everything Spencer offered and basked in the warmth of his caresses because Spencer truly knew how to kiss. He tasted like he’d had a glass of wine at some point, and his hands felt cool but sure on Nash’s skin. His lips were firm yet mobile and oddly soft.

This was a man who took his time making love, and Nash regretted the urgency. He understood the futility of wishing for more when he didn’t want more, when there wasn’t room in his life for more. Might not be room ever.

Despite their rather cramped and public circumstances, Spencer was thorough and inventive. Nash wrapped as much as he could of himself around him, straining to be closer, console be damned.

Spencer broke off their kiss, framing Nash’s face with both hands. Smiles blossomed between them.

“I’d have rented a minivan if I’d known this could happen. But we have company.” Spencer tilted his head toward the very real, very clear headlights of the tow truck idling behind them. Nash gripped the dashboard, a little dazed.

“Wow.” He hadn’t even heard the truck roll up. How could he have been that oblivious? His dick was crushed behind the zipper of his leather pants, hoping for more. His brain had apparently turned to mush. He blinked his confusion away and hurried to grab his jacket and pack his towel away. “Sorry.”

“I’m not.” Spencer kissed him again. “I’m nothing like sorry.”

“Cool.” Nash stopped what he was doing to commit the image of Spencer’s kiss-swollen lips to memory. “Pleasure meeting you.”

“The pleasure was all mine.”

Nash nodded, struggling into his jacket and gloves. “Maybe I’ll see you around?”

Spencer gave him a wink. “Maybe.”

Nash pushed the door open and headed back into the rain. The downpour hadn’t let up, but there was no help for it. He uncovered his bike like he had all the time in the world. That seemed smooth, right? Then he wiped the rain off his helmet and turned to wave before putting it on. When he was ready to leave, the EVO’s engine roared to life, ready to eat up some more road.

Nash never second-guessed what life handed him. He’d started out that evening feeling hemmed in, anxious about his family, a little too burdened by responsibility. He’d gone for a ride to break the chains tying him to Bluewater Bay, if only for a few hours.

Now his balls were blue. At least he had a video of a TV star for his sister and a memory that would fuel happy masturbation for a good long time.

He’d never see Spencer again, probably.

Still . . . you never knew.

Chapter Three

“Shh,” Spencer hissed as he joined Tick outside the RV he used between takes. “Bast just got back from the oral surgeon. His face was so swollen from the extractions, he cried for an hour. He’s finally asleep.”

“Ah, poor baby. Thinks he’s going to stay like that.” The menacing South Sea Islander, an ex-rugby player who acted the part of both bodyguard and personal chef, dropped a set of keys into Spencer’s outstretched hand. “Got your ride back.”

“They finished it in one day? That was quick.”

“I might have told them you wanted the car back very badly.” A wide grin split Tick’s terrifying, tattooed face, giving him a surprisingly boyish appearance. “I guess I can be a little intimidating.”

Understatement of the year. “They did fix it, didn’t they? You didn’t just scare them into handing it back wi

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