Encore Encore (8 page)

“Nothing that bothers me,” Shawn answered with a grin.

“Don’t think we need fi ngers.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

Nodding, Roscoe clicked the bottle shut and tossed it aside.

He slathered his cock with lube then reached down to rub Shawn’s hole anyway, slipping two fi ngers inside.

Shawn arched and groaned. “Hey.”

“Couldn’t resist.”

Shawn caught his knees and pulled them to his chest. “Fuck me already.”

Smiling, Roscoe watched as he rubbed his cock head on Shawn’s hole. “So impatient.”

56 Mykles ~ Much Ado

“Co-
oe
!” He somehow managed to make two syllables out of one as Roscoe speared him mid-word. The entire length of that thick, gorgeous cock sank into Shawn in one marvelous glide.

Roscoe hooked either arm under Shawn’s legs, catching them when Shawn’s grip faltered. “You okay?” Shawn’s arms slammed the mattress, his fi ngers fi nding purchase in the mussed sheets. “I’m great. Pound me, and I’m even better.”

Slowly, Roscoe pulled back then slid forward, making Shawn feel every inch. “Pounding? Already?”

Shawn swallowed, laughing breathlessly. “You bastard.”

“Mmmm.” He had Shawn bent double, legs draped over his elbows while his hands braced on the mattress. He pulled out and in again. “You love it.”

True. Shawn gripped the bed, unable to move much in this position. Roscoe was completely in charge, and both of them knew that they each loved it. Shawn could only groan and cry as his ass clutched Roscoe’s slowly pistoning dick. Roscoe didn’t pick up speed until Shawn’s eyes rolled up in his head and words failed him.

His legs slid off Roscoe’s arms as his lover adjusted again, leaning forward to hover mouth over mouth. “I love you, Finn.” Shawn would have responded in kind, but Roscoe wrapped a hand around his cock, squeezing just right. “Fuck!” was all he could manage as he lost control of his hips, helpless as they rocked in a ragged rhythm. He managed to wrench open sweat heavy eyes to meet the demanding black gaze over his. “Yours,” he grunted.

With a triumphant grin, Roscoe shoved hard.

A gruff shout tore from Shawn’s throat as his body clenched, inside and out. Hot, thick cum striped his belly and chest, a few drops spattering his chin.

Roscoe milked him through it, then released his over-sensitive cock to give him the pounding he’d demanded earlier. His body ENCORE! ENCORE!
57

still clenched from the orgasm, Shawn rode the delicious friction, dazed as he watched Roscoe chase a climax. Catch it. So fucking beautiful when he arched back, a groan dribbling from his lips as he shot his load deep inside Shawn.

They lay side by side as their bodies cooled, hands idly drifting over conveniently close body parts, eyes locked in silent promise.

Once his heartbeat normalized, Shawn cuddled closer, draping one leg over Roscoe’s narrow hips as he brushed lips to lips.

“What was I mad about again?”

He felt more than saw Roscoe’s smile. “I can’t remember.”

“Mmm. Neither can I.” He opened his mouth to Roscoe’s, sucking in the tongue he craved. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

◊ ◊ ◊ ◊

Shawn applauded, laughing at Nick’s retelling of their antics on their way upstate. They stood on the top of the hill overlooking the outdoor amphitheater in full costume. Shawn, Nick, Jeff and, surprisingly enough, Joshua. The pair had brought the third with them to see one of Shawn’s performances in the Bard’s Festival.

Shawn had not known this until after the show when he saw who was with them. But, now, twenty minutes and a brief serious talk later, it was all good.

They were laughing loud enough that Shawn didn’t hear Roscoe come up behind him. Didn’t even know he was there until mirth melted from Joshua’s face as he focused over Shawn’s shoulder.

Shawn looked up just as Roscoe placed a hand on his shoulder, gently pulling Shawn against his side. “You sound like you’re having a good time.”

Shawn beamed up at his lover, winding an arm around his waist underneath his light sports jacket. The ample skirt of his formal dress and the unyielding boning of his corset kept him from melting into his lover, but he did what he could. “I am.” He used his free hand to indicate the others. “I think you’ve
58 Mykles ~ Much Ado

met Nick, although you may not recognize him outside of his makeup.”

Roscoe held out a hand, smiling. “Ms. Tyken, I presume?” Nick batted his unmade eyelashes and his posture went from masculine to feminine in an easy glide as he slid his hand into Roscoe’s. “Hello, handsome. Nice to see you again.” Shawn gestured to Jeff. “This is Nick’s friend, Jeff.” The two men shook.

Shawn smiled at Joshua despite the uneasy look on the other man’s face. “And this is Joshua.”

Because they were pressed together, Shawn felt Roscoe fl inch.

He looked up to see the careful calm on his lover’s face, knowing a wealth of emotions hid behind that mask. A little more slowly, he held out his hand. Shawn knew it wasn’t an accident that he pulled Shawn closer at the same time.

Joshua met Roscoe’s stare and shook his hand briefl y. He nodded but lost his nerve and lowered his eyes along with his hand. “It was a great play,” he tried, sticking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “One of the few Shakespeare plays I’ve seen that I could actually follow.”

“Thank you.” With Joshua’s attention averted, Roscoe glanced down at Shawn. The calm expression remained, but the black eyes behind those glasses glittered with questions.

“Well.” Nick clapped his hands, dispelling the tension. “I’m sure you two have things to do and we really should be getting back on the road.” He shook Roscoe’s hand again as Shawn ducked free then pulled Shawn into a tight hug. “You’ll be okay?” he whispered, lips close to Shawn’s ear on the other side from Roscoe.

Shawn grinned and squeezed Nick. “I’ll be fi ne. Thank you.”

“No problem, sugar. I’m just glad it worked out.” Nick straightened and winked. For their audience, he put on a little simper. “You were marvelous, darling.” ENCORE! ENCORE!
59

“Oh, get out,” Shawn mocked, playfully. He said his goodbyes to Jeff, then faced Joshua.

The taller man glanced from him to where Roscoe stood behind him and back, then stuck out his hand. “It was great to see you, Shawn.”

Shawn took it, not quite comfortable with the idea of a hug even with the apologies made. “Thanks for coming.” Joshua nodded. “Don’t be a stranger at the bar.”

“I won’t.”

Joshua swallowed, braved a nod in Roscoe’s direction, then let Nick usher him away.

“Well.” Roscoe stepped up beside Shawn, his attention on the retreating trio. All around and below them in the valley, various pockets of people milled around, some in costume like Shawn.

But the crowd was waning. No doubt Roscoe had come to see what was keeping Shawn.

“Yes. He’s
that
Joshua.”

One brow arched as Roscoe regarded him. “Should I have decked him?”

“Mmmm, that would have been interesting.” He giggled. He did that when he wore skirts. “But no. Evidently, after I told Nick what happened, he tracked Joshua down and had a talk with him. Turned out that he really is harmless.” He met Roscoe’s skeptical stare. “Really. He’s not really good in social situations, and handled it badly. Nick says once he started talking to more of the regulars at the bar, he calmed down and got to know people.

It’s all good.”

“Really.”

“Really.” Shawn stepped into Roscoe’s space, slipping his arms up over the taller man’s shoulders. “But it’s kinda sexy to see you get all protective.”

Roscoe laughed. “Well, I suppose I should thank Joshua for one thing at least.”

60 Mykles ~ Much Ado

“Oh?”

He slid his palms down Shawn’s sides, pulling him closer as he lowered his head to brush lips with Shawn. “He led you back to me.”

Shawn thought about that as they shared a leisurely kiss.

“Yeah. Well. Let’s not go to the extreme again, shall we?” Roscoe nodded. “Agreed.” Another kiss, then he chuckled, eyes twinkling merrily as he stood straight.

“Hmmm. So, it was all much ado about nothing then?” Shawn groaned, shaking his head. “Oh. That’s bad.” ALL THAT JAZZ

CHARLIE COCHRANE

Brighton, January

“He had it coming. He had it coming.”
One of the merry murderesses was strolling along past the door, getting every part of a strident voice properly tuned up for the dress rehearsal.
“If you’d have been there, if you’d have seen
it…”
The song faded as the singer turned one of the corners of the labyrinthine backstage corridor, heading for the communal homicidal dressing room.

Velma Kelly made a miniscule adjustment to her eyeliner, emphasising her naturally dark blue eyes and creating an effect which was seductive as well as overtly theatrical. Getting the right effect, one which reached to the back row of the circle but didn’t make the people in the front row of the stalls think you were made up with oil paint, was an art in itself. Juliet had the knack and Velma was grateful to have her skills to call on. Juliet had been a dresser and make-up artist for twenty years, having amassed a fund of wisdom and risqué stories. She plied everyone with anecdotes of the great, mediocre and downright useless.

And she wielded a mean panstick—the company had been lucky to get hold of someone so capable.

“When you’re good to Mama…”
A higher pitched voice went past the dressing room door, slightly croaking and subtly out of tune. Not one of the cast this time. Maybe a stagehand putting on the falsetto, or even the doorman, who was built like the side of a barn and probably sang counter tenor.

Velma considered her refl ection again. Luscious waves of hair from the black Louise Brooks style wig framed her heart shaped face—it was a decent black wig, to boot, not something that looked like it had come off a dead cat. That sweet face would be vying with the slightly more lantern-jawed features of Roxie Hart for the hearts of the audience in only a few evenings’ time.

Opening night seemed to have been a bloody long time coming, the traumas of auditions rounding the corner into the mixed excitement and ennui of rehearsal, then going into the home straight of being in a real theatre rather than just a church hall.

64 Cochrane ~ All That Jazz

Sorting the technical stuff seemed to have taken forever.

Velma knew she should be more patient, should be taking more of an interest in that side of things. The guys on the team worked their backsides off getting the practical aspects right and there were plenty of them in this show. Somehow thinking about the nuts and bolts just seemed to get in the way of what she felt was real theatre. People with their feet on a stage, reaching out to those with their bums on the seats. Strip all the lights and sound equipment and props away, and it was as simple as that.

A small tattoo on the door brought Velma’s thoughts back from performance to reality. “Come in.”

“Just wanted to say ‘break a leg.’” Freddie Wright, the director, put his head round the door, his usual smile not entirely hiding his nerves. There was a lot riding on this production, for all of them.

Musicals had a habit of failing, even productions of something as seemingly gilt-edged as this one.

“I’ll ignore the cliché and take all the good wishes lying behind it.” Velma smiled. A lot of affection existed between director and star. They’d known each other since University days, when third year Freddie had taken this seemingly innocent young fresher under his wing. A lot of water had passed under the bridge—or been passed over the parapet on drunken nights—since then.

“You’ll be swell.” Freddie grinned.

“I’ll be great. I’ll have the whole world on a plate.” Velma resisted putting the tune to the words. “Maybe.”

“No time for doubts. Or if it is, they have to be gone for the preview night. Brighton expects and so do I.” Freddie gave a mock salute. “Just off to give Roxie the pep talk as well.”

“Not one for Billy Flynn?” Velma returned the salute by rising and giving a deep curtsey, one that would probably mean readjusting her tights afterwards. Bloody stupid things, seams.

“Nah. He’s the least worried of the lot of you. Done the role four times, amateur through to pro. Could do it in his sleep.”

“Sometimes it seems that’s just how he
is
doing it…” Velma’s voice followed the director out into the corridor. She’d just got ENCORE! ENCORE!
65

the left seam to a ramrod straight perfection on her left calf when the stage manager’s runner came along, knocking on the door.

“Five minutes, Mr. Yardley.”

“Thank you.” For a moment, a dreadfully long vulnerable moment, Francis Yardley remembered who he really was. Not Liza Minnelli or Chita Rivera, just a bloke from Stoke Newington who happened to have both a brain and a pair of pins to match Cyd Charisse’s. One who’d talked his way into a university production of Oklahoma during his fresher year, and had turned out to be a more than acceptable Curly McLain to an utterly appalling Laurey Williams. It had been a modest start, but a start nonetheless.

Curly McLain had led to Billy Flynn in Chicago—yeah, he’d played that part as well, second year at university. By the time he’d fi nished, the passable second class degree under his belt had been joined by a range of amateur roles. Freddie was starting to fl y by then, getting his directorial feet under the table in the provinces. He’d taken Francis along with him, bypassing back and even front rows of the chorus, and heading straight for Evelyn Oakleigh. You rarely got a better start, even if Evelyn Oakleigh, Billy Crocker, Velma Kelly, wasn’t a natural progression.

“Overture and beginners.” The disembodied voice moved around backstage, hollering the lines which got the adrenaline fl owing, penetrating to the most meagre of the dressing rooms and fading away into the depths of the labyrinth. “Overture and beginners.” It came through the crack where the door wasn’t quite closed and brought Francis back to the present with a bump.