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For all intents and purposes, Jim was usually a pretty stand-up guy. He didn’t go around making lavish donations to all the causes that needed supporting – what sort of musician touring in the back of a van had that kind of money? – but he didn’t go around kicking puppies either.
Which is why, if anyone asked, he was doing this for all the right reasons. Like to be helpful or whatever shit he might use to convince himself.
Not that it was himself who needed convincing.
Frankly, it was his own fault he was in this situation. Well, somewhat—he wasn’t going to take responsibility for the kid’s behaviour. But it was his fault that he even knew about it, because he could have continued along on his way upon discovering Steve Pedulla and Tom Keeley standing in the parking lot with sour expressions on their faces, the latter practically chewing on a cigarette as he grumbled. Jim had a curious mind, though, and he couldn’t resist stopping and listening in to find out what, precisely, had the Thursdudes so riled.
The answer to that appeared to have been their drummer, who, as Jim understood from the grunts of frustration, finished off the last of their beer, and the boys were hurting for cash. Jim would wager that there was more to the story than just that.
But the words were out of his mouth before he could listen in for more. “I could spot you beer money,” he offered.
The two guitarists turned to look at him with wide eyes, evidently not having noticed his he was even there—which was all fine and well, seeing as Jim didn’t want anyone to notice that he was eavesdropping. Until, well, he clearly outed himself for that, but the ideas were forming in his head only after he spoke, so he was improvising on the spot as the taller of the two – Keeley – asked with a still-surprised expression, “Really?”
“Really,” Jim confirmed. “I’ll even propose you a trade.”
Glances were shared between the guitarists before they looked back to Jim. “Dude, we don’t even have enough cash for beer. We have nothing to trade.”
“Tucker.”
“Excuse me?” Keeley asked, eyebrows shooting up to his greasy hairline as though he couldn’t quite believe what he heard. If Jim hadn’t been the one to say the name, he might have trouble believing it too. Hell, he still wasn’t quite sure what he was offering.
“I’ll take him off your hands,” he elaborated, adding with a shrug, “For the night, anyway.”
He almost blinked as Keeley asked, “But what do you get out of it?” because…he hadn’t exactly thought that through. What was he getting out of it? Well, he was being helpful, wasn’t he? Was that not the objective here? He had some money – not a lot, but enough cash in his pocket to buy the dudes a twenty-four pack, at least – and they were having some trouble with their feral little drummer, so it was just common courtesy to propose a trade. Part of him wondered, in the back of his mind, whether he even knew what common courtesy meant.
“Look, you guys get some beer money and a night of peace,” Jim attempted to reason with them, a little surprised that he was having to explain this in the first place. “And we’re all touring together, right? So, I’m not just gonna murder your drummer.”
“I might,” he heard Pedulla mutter under his breath.
Keeley took another drag of his cigarette. “Just don’t knock him up, I don’t think we could deal with another Tucker.”
Jim was tempted to laugh – he did laugh – because that sort of thing hadn’t even crossed his mind, but now it was all he could think about. Not knocking Tucker up, because, well, that was rather impossible, wasn’t it? But the act itself…
And that was how, about an hour later, after exchanging a number of bank notes with Pedulla in what appeared to be most clandestine drug deal of sorts behind the Thursday van, Jim was crouching on the ground beside the drummer, knocking shoulders to get his attention. “Hey, you’re coming in the Sparta van today,” he said, as though there was no choice and Tucker had to just accept it—but still casual, as though it was some sort of friendly joke.
Tucker, however, caught Jim off guard as he smiled mischievously and asked, “Am I?”
Keeley seemed to suggest that Tucker was unable to sit still in the van, but after an hour on the back bench with the drummer, Jim was confused. Tucker was…well, not quiet – he certainly didn’t hesitate to join in on the conversation – but not quite so chaotic as described.
He was starting to think that perhaps he had been duped—if it even counted as deception when the guitarists hadn’t even realized Jim was listening.
Not that twenty bucks was a luxury to pay for the drummer.
One thing, at least, was the mischievous looks the kid kept shooting Jim, as though he had some scandal planned and the vocalist was supposed to be picking up telepathically what Tucker was attempting to convey to him. A big part of him wanted to bite that smirk off Tucker’s face – to pin him to the bench and remind him who was in charge here – but as far as the drummer knew, Jim had just asked him to hang out in their van—he wasn’t intimately aware of the details behind his being here with Jim and his band, the exchange that had occurred.
It was another hour into the drive when he finally began to notice a squirminess in the drummer.
All it took was one look at the kid to see that he was struggling to sit still. It might not have been obvious if you weren’t paying close attention, but Jim didn’t miss the shuffling of hips, the crossing of legs, the way Tucker’s shoulders moved. The more interesting thing, however, was that there was no nervousness that usually accompanied such actions—no, instead he found Tucker’s eyes flickering between Jim’s hands, face, and lap.
He was supposed to be the one in charge here, but he found it more difficult to speak than it was to remain quiet when he was supposed to be eavesdropping. Tucker seemed to notice, and leaned in, hot breath against Jim’s ear as he asked, “So, when do I get to come?”
Okay, he was starting to see the problem.
Not that it was a problem, exactly – not for him, at least – but if this is what Tucker was like in the Thursday van, it was a miracle they ever got anywhere.
Jim had to prevent from squirming himself as he felt his cock react to Tucker’s suggestion, which was precisely what the drummer had in mind—he didn’t even have to take in the kid’s expression to hear the clear intent in his voice. He refused to react, lest the rest of his bandmates notice what was going on. As far as they knew, Tucker had just decided to hitch a ride with them for the sheer fun of it, and nobody questioned a damn thing—they were all on the same tour, so they would all end up in the same place eventually.
Tucker didn’t speak to the matter again, but the mischievous smile remained on his face as he all but pretended Jim wasn’t even there. If he was playing some sort of teasing game, the vocalist was afraid Tucker might actually win.
Until they stopped for gas and, without missing a beat, the drummer leapt from his seat and announced, “Jimmy and I are going for a smoke.”
Jim opened his mouth to protest, but Tucker had him out the door before he could speak.
He didn’t even smoke.
Seeing as they were stopped at a gas station, nobody expected that Tucker would stand outside the van and set the thing aflame just to feed his nicotine addiction, so nobody seemed perturbed by the distance at which the drummer seemed to be guiding the vocalist.
It was a couple yards away and on the edge of what appeared to be a forest before Tucker stopped. However, instead of withdrawing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket – actually, if Jim had paid close enough attention, he was pretty sure he would have realized they were sitting still on the bench in the back of the van – the drummer instead reached for Jim’s belt. “Is that a banana in your pants or are you just happy to see me?”
Jim was tempted to say neither, but that answer would result in his dick remaining untouched, so he kept his mouth shut.
God—the drummer’s callused hand felt so good on his cock as Tucker squeezed gently and began to jerk him to full hardness. It had been a while since he’d had a hand besides his own on him, and the kid certainly seemed to know what he was doing.
He didn’t think he was going to last very long, but seeing as they only had so much time before someone came looking for them, it was probably for the best.
Jim groaned as Tucker’s hand kept moving, stroking, squeezing—
Stopping.
He all but whined when, just as the pressure began to build, the drummer’s hand withdrew from his pants. When he looked up, poised to ask the question as to what, exactly, the drummer was doing, Tucker was lighting a lone cigarette—he must have taken it from the pack before leaving the van. All was well, anyway, as Jim yet again could not find his voice—somewhere, in between the Target parking lot in the middle of nowhere and this gas station a few hours into buttfuck nowhere, he had lost all his nerve where Tucker Rule was concerned.
That was certainly not how he planned this to go when he paid Keeley twenty dollars for a night with the kid, but, well, he had been making it up as he went along. Some things were clearly easier thought, even if not said, than done.
Tucker exhaled and looked at him with a faux innocent expression. “What? Isn’t that what you paid for?”
The little fucker knew?
What he should have said was no, because he did not pay to get blue balls, but suggesting that he had paid for such things in general would be admitting that he hadn’t done it out of the kindness of his heart—common courtesy or whatever excuse of helpfulness might help him sleep at night. More so, that would imply that Tucker was a hooker, and, well, that was the sort of thing one joked about, sure, but it felt dirty just to think about it earnestly.
So, instead, he mumbled, “I’m starting to get why your band ditched you.”
In any other situation, the comment might have come across as rude. But Tucker knew Jim, and Tucker also knew his band, so the drummer let out a bark of amused laughter. “Oh, Jimmy,” he began before taking another drag, “You don’t even know the half of it.”
He wanted to ask, but at the same time, he wasn’t even sure he wanted to know. In any case, there was little time to voice such questions, as the drummer stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and exhaled a final time before making his way back toward the van. There was no stiffness to his shoulders, no tight lines around his mouth, so Jim felt assured, at least, that he hadn’t done anything wrong. In fact, Tucker looked positively mirthful with the mischievous grin having retaken its place upon his lips.
As they settled back into the van, Jim couldn’t stop thinking about what happened out there. And just how badly he wanted Tucker’s hand on him again.
Tucker smirked as he eyed Jim’s crotch. Motherfucker.
One of the blessings about being a touring musician with a few years already under one’s belt is that you started to know people, network along the road, which meant that sometimes, even if you couldn’t get a motel for the night, you could get a floor.
Thank fuck for Geoff Rickly and his abundance of connections, as he managed to score a basement for both Thursday and Sparta that night.
Between the dozen or so of them, there was naught but a single blow-up air mattress and a ratty couch, but for the most part, everyone would be finding themselves a corner of the floor. Which was why Jim volunteered to stay in the van for the night—it might be a little chilly out there, seeing as he wasn’t going to waste gas turning on the heat all night, but at least the seats would make a more comfortable bed than some dude’s cold, moldy basement floor.
As per their agreement, Tucker would stay in the van with Jim, because, well, it didn’t make sense for him to offer to take drummer off Thursday’s hands for the night if they were going to spend the night with the band anyway.
Tony almost offered to stay with them, clearly looking forward to talking drums with the drummer, before Jim waved him off toward the house.
“Really, man,” he said, “grab a pillow and blanket and get a good night’s sleep.”
And, with that, they were alone.
Jim had spent the rest of the afternoon and evening thinking about everything that had happened earlier that day, from the exchange with Keeley and Pedulla to the orgasm denied to him by Tucker. He wasn’t sure when and how he’d managed to lose his nerve – he was supposed to be the one in control – but he would be damned if he let that slide. Jim now knew exactly why Keeley asked the question as to what he got out of the deal—blue balls and a deep understanding of the sexual frustration that kid must cause his bandmates, that was for sure.
The wisest course of action, seeing as they had only one blanket between them, was to collapse the seats in the back and sleep in the trunk. No sooner had they closed the trunk door behind them that Jim was on Tucker, pinning him to the floor of the vehicle.
“I believe,” he began, slotting a knee between the kid’s legs, “that you owe me an orgasm.”
Frankly, he should not have been surprised at the smirk that rose to Tucker’s face as the drummer responded, “And I believe you owe me one.”
No, that was not how this was supposed to go. Tucker was not going to retain the upper hand. Jim’s grip tightened around his wrists, but the drummer’s grin didn’t waver as the vocalist gave him his best stern expression. “I paid for you, remember?” At this point, seeing as the kid knew about the exchange and didn’t seem perturbed by it, Jim wasn’t going to bother pretending he was innocent in all of this. “So, I decide who gets to come and when.”
Tucker’s eyebrows waggled. “Feisty. I like it.”
Jim surprised himself by slapping the drummer across the face. He almost felt bad, until he saw that Tucker was still smiling. Okay, this kid was clearly into some kinky shit—Jim would file away that knowledge for another time.
With his now free hand – the one that had slapped Tucker – Jim reached for his own belt. “If I feel teeth, you’re sleeping on the pavement tonight.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” Tucker responded, using his own free hand to salute the vocalist.
There was a bit of awkward shimmying before Jim managed to shed his jeans, tossing them in the corner of the trunk so that they would be out of firing range—he hoped, anyway. Jim was already hard, having thought long and hard – pun not intended – about this throughout the evening as he planned how he might execute his plan. The most difficult part was maneuvering himself over Tucker so that the drummer remained beneath him, but still at a position where his mouth was easily accessible. He ended up releasing the drummer’s other wrist in favour of holding into the seats of the middle bench for additional support.
“Open up, kid—”
“You’re like, two years older than me.”
Jim didn’t wait before lining up the head with Tucker’s upturned lips. “Yeah, so respect your fucking elders and suck my cock already.”
The drummer seemed more than willing to oblige, zipping his mouth and opening it at the same time. Jim moved slowly, not wanting to choke the kid or practically impale him on his cock, but god, was it ever hard – again, pun not intended – when he felt so good.
Circumstances be damned, Jim was a fucking saint for the patience he practiced as he watched Tucker suck his cock. From this angle, Jim was the one in control – Tucker could do little more than bob his head back and forth, and shallowly, at that – and he wouldn’t abuse that position by forcing the kid to deepthroat him. He listened for any sounds of choking, felt for any friction, as he made gentle thrusts into the drummer’s mouth.
Only once he was certain that Tucker could handle it did he begin to pick up the pace and go a little deeper.
And god, the kid was good. It was evident that Tucker knew what he was doing as he did his best to swirl his tongue around the thick length between his lips, to hollow his cheeks and suck them back in, to suck on the head each time Jim pulled back. If Tucker wasn’t such goddamn trouble – enough so that his own band was willing to trade him for a case of beer – Jim might even consider doing this regularly, but he also knew that he’d manage to drive himself insane eventually. Hell, it was such insanity that pushed him to this limit.
It wasn’t long before Jim found himself gripping the seat, rocking against Tucker’s face as his orgasm began to build. Finally, fucking finally—
Tucker pulled off his cock.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he muttered, reaching down with his free hand – the same one he had used to position himself before allowing his hips to take over – to grab the kid by the hair. He couldn’t force Tucker’s lips open, but he could rub his cock all over the kid’s face.
Which he did, and which Tucker took with grace—well, if you could call it grace when his eyes were closed, mouth open slightly – not enough to force his cock inside, but enough that he could hear the moans emerging from that throat – and looking overall like a desperate, wanton whore. Interesting choice of words, Jim thought, considering the situation by which he had Tucker here in the van. Honestly, he was worth more than twenty bucks.
And Tucker continued to take it when Jim held his head and grunted as he finally came in sticky ropes all over the drummer’s face.
Tucker looked so dirty, it was so fucking hot. And when his tongue emerged to taste the mess—
Jim’s mouth was on his before he even realized what he was doing.
He didn’t care that he was getting his own come all over his face, he couldn’t help but practically maul Tucker—he kissed, he bit, he ate the kid from inside his mouth, tasted his own salty fluid on his tongue. He could still feel the remnants of his orgasm leaking from his cock, not having drained the entire thing before pulling Tucker in for the kiss, but he couldn’t stop—it was like everything he had felt all day, from need to frustration to thankfulness, was spilling out at once, and the sounds Tucker made did little to discourage him.
It was only once he needed to breathe that Jim pulled away. The drummer was panting just as heavily, an exhausted expression on his face but lips still quirking into a smile, clearly having enjoyed every second of it.
“So,” Tucker began, voice absolutely ragged in the sexiest way, “is it my turn yet?”
He could have said yes. Hell, Jim wasn’t so exhausted that he couldn’t return the favour, at least in the form of a handjob—common courtesy and all.
But Jim was feeling a little vindictive, and two could play at Tucker’s game. “I don’t know,” he said, a smirk rising to his own lips as he let the kid go, wiping his sweaty hands on his light blue tee-shirt without breaking eye contact. “I don’t remember paying for that.”
Tucker could have protested. It wasn’t as though Jim was leaving the van, after all—that was where he was sleeping for the night. But, as Jim grabbed his jeans and pulled them back on, the drummer just watched him, possibly waiting to see if he was serious. It must have been clear when the vocalist grabbed the blanket and lay down, facing away from the kid. It wasn’t long before he heard Tucker shuffling down into a sleeping position behind him.
Maybe he was evil. Oh, but payback’s a bitch.
Keeley practically barked out a laugh as Jim approached him the next day, handing him another twenty. “I’m not offering to take him for another night,” he clarified as he placed the note in the guitarist’s hand. “I just think you’re gonna need a lot more alcohol.”
“Gave you a hard night, did he?” The smirk on the guitarist’s face was unmistakable.
“That’s one way to put it.”
He had been generous enough to jerk the kid off come morning – again, pun not intended – because even Jim wasn’t evil enough to hand him back to the Thursdudes with a raging case of blue balls and too much pent up energy. He didn’t imagine it was much help—Tucker was thankful, of course, but Jim had never seen someone bounce back so quickly after an orgasm. If he was always so wired in the van, it was no wonder his bandmates were so readily willing to sell him for the night—not that Jim blamed them, of course.
And, yet, he found himself already planning what he might do next time, as though there was actually going to be a next time—how he would exert control, how he would maintain control, how he would keep the drummer in his place.
The kid had already proven he was into some kinky shit. Well, Jim could work with that—with a little research, anyway.
Another laugh from the guitarist. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”
Keeley stubbed out his cigarette and exhaled once more as he tilted his head toward their van. “If you ever wanna hop in with us, just let me know. I think Geoff would appreciate having you around, and we could always use an extra pair of hands.” He watched as Keeley’s eyes followed where their vocalist was helping the drummer unload his kit. Jim knew exactly what he meant, being a musician in a band himself—there was always something to carry.
“Dude, we’re on the same tour,” he said. Keeley shrugged. “But,” Jim continued, “I’ll keep that in mind. Just…” He took a moment to think about what, exactly, he wanted to say. “If he needs a firm hand, you know, don’t hesitate to ask.”
A mix of scoff and laughter followed. “You’re gonna regret that offer,” the guitarist warned him.
“Yeah, maybe.”
But honestly, Jim was looking forward to seeing just what he was capable of doing—and, perhaps, how much more that kid could be worth. After all, he wasn’t kicking puppies—and if he couldn’t donate to some larger cause, the Thursday sanity fund would have to do.