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1.
T
HE
first time Turner Watts met Luca Kennedy, he learned
the true meaning of the phrase, “taken aback.” Luca
wore
dark aviator sunglasses, awkwardly big on his gaunt face,
and looked like he had just come from rolling around in a
yard sale down the street. Despite his small, wiry frame and
being several inches shorter than Turner, he instantly
conveyed the vibe he could eat worlds and slay giants
.
“I’m sorry,” Turner said. “I don’t know what BASE
jumping is.”
They were loitering in front of a coffee shop on Melrose
Avenue, the trendiest people in the world drifting by, the
California sun beating down hot. Luca explained to him that
the name of the band he fronted, Salto, meant “to jump” in
Portuguese, his cultural heritage. He then explained why
he’d chosen the word.
“It”—Turner struggled not to sound foolish—“has
something… to do with the military?” This sounded
reasonable.
Luca grinned, flashing over-white teeth. His pale skin
looked impossibly smooth, like whipped butter. Dark hair
streaked with bleached-blond stripes hung to his shoulders,
drawing attention to a long, slender neck above the collar of
a ragged pea-green T-shirt.
“No, it’s just regular civilians jumping off shit like
maniacs.” Turner’s new acquaintance and Luca’s best friend,
Christian Holden, provided an answer. He stood next to
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Luca, and in stark contrast, Christian was dark, burly, tall,
and tattooed. Turner himself presented a rather gritty
figure—tattoos down his arms, spiky blond hair, someone
who wouldn’t be caught dead in a business suit.
When Christian told Turner he would introduce him to
his “best friend,” Turner had expected someone very much
like Christian—a hardcore, leather-clad rocker—not a tiny,
frail waif Turner suspected could scoop him up in one hand
and fling him to the pavement.
“It is jumping off shit like a maniac,” Luca said. “But
with a parachute. And for glory. I’ll tell you all about it
sometime. Right now, we’re here for other things. Christian
tells me you can play guitar.”
Weeks passed before Turner saw Luca and Christian
again.
Turner brought his guitar to a small, cluttered
apartment in Beverly Hills, where Luca gave him his
audition. Luca looked less like a homeless person this time,
dressed in a slim black sweater despite the heat, jeans
looking fresh off the rack, and beat-up blue Converse
sneakers.
Luca sat in a chair behind a small table scattered with
papers, and Christian hovered over him like a bodyguard.
Turner played his guitar but couldn’t get over how ethereal
Luca’s eyes were: a shocking color, blue bordering on violet,
and impossibly wide.
He didn’t actually expect to get in the band.
“You need to have dinner with us.” Luca stuffed a piece
of paper into Turner’s hand, on which he’d scribbled the
name of a restaurant and an address. “Seven-thirty sound
all right?”
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In the years after, Turner could never remember the
name of the restaurant. He could remember the way the light
shone in Luca’s eyes, the way he moved as if he were only
half there, like a phantom, like a beguiling angel. The
restaurant served foreign fare and had a strange name.
Turner could never bring himself to ask.
Turner also couldn’t bring himself to ask all the things
he wanted to know about Luca. Every time they were
together he found his tongue tied and couldn’t force himself
to make even the smallest of small talk. Luca could be
incredibly intense, sometimes even stressful to be around.
He was always writing, or working out chords, or creating
artwork, and his devotion to perfection bled onto everyone
and everything around him. Practices were particularly
painful, as Luca would make everyone stay until they had
achieved a level of performance he found acceptable.
Sometimes they hung out in bars—after practice, if the
session hadn’t gone on too long, or on weekends when
Turner left work early. Even then, Luca would be writing in a
notebook and never really engaged in conversation. Turner
wanted to know about him—his family, his background, why
he chose music, what the hell BASE jumping meant. But one
look from Luca, one of his appraising stares that burrowed
right under Turner’s flesh, and he couldn’t say a word.
Turner also thought Luca might be bipolar, given his
frantic ups and downs. At times he became intensely focused
and withdrawn, and then other times he became hyper,
overly friendly, and giddy, clamoring for attention.
Turner asked Christian about his behavior.
“Is Luca on medication or something? He seems kind of
manic.”
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Christian chortled. “He sure is.” He mimed snorting
something up his nose.
The revelation Luca might be an addict worried Turner
greatly. Not for his future with the band, but Luca’s health.
Turner kept himself clean because he’d seen too many
people destroy their lives with drugs.
He realized, lying in bed one night, what all his
worrying, and his desire to talk to Luca and get to know him
better, meant: he had a crush on him.
From the time Turner began to have a sexual identity,
he knew he didn’t just go for girls, though he liked girls just
fine. However, he had never been what most or even he
would consider a “practicing bisexual.” Largely because,
growing up in his little corner of suburbia, being anything
less than straight equated to being like one of those drug
addicts he would later meet—certainly there were others out
there, but you didn’t just go up to people and ask. The
extent of his “practicing bisexuality” included fooling around
with a few guys in high school and once going on a date with
a guy. He wasn’t entirely sure the guy considered the outing
a date, however.
He thought with despair, It’s just like you to fall for the
bad boy.
Not long after Turner’s realization, the band played a
show in a seedy little club, and seven people were nice
enough to show up. After this failure, Luca dragged Turner
to another, much busier club down the street. Luca didn’t
seem at all depressed they had just done little more than
annoy a handful of people. He was in one of his hyper states,
and Turner wondered if he’d snorted up in the bathroom
after the show.
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LA clubs had not changed a bit since Turner had last
been in one—when he’d turned twenty-one, three years
before. Several friends, not even in his social circle anymore,
had taken him out for his birthday. In the trendy California
underworld, the worst things could be found in the best
clubs. Turner stayed away from the back rooms, where too
many things could go up his nose or into his arm—or in
orifices, if he wasn’t careful.
Luca disappeared as soon as they arrived, saying he had
to talk to some people. Awkward and out of place, Turner
went to the bar. He ordered a whiskey and water on the
rocks. The opportunity lay ahead to make a fool of himself,
and he didn’t want anything stronger. Drink acquired, he
tried to relax and remind himself he was still young, and
young people hung out in clubs. The thumping music
vibrated through his body, and he watched people gyrate on
the dance floor. While lost in thought, circling a fingertip
around the edge of his glass, he suddenly felt a jostling
against his back and hands on his waist. He caught a whiff
of familiar cologne.
“You are a beautiful boy,” Luca murmured against his
ear. “Have I told you that yet?”
A tingle rushed through Turner, so hot and swift he
thought someone had touched a bare electrical wire to his
skin. He struggled to ignore the twitch in the crotch of his
way-too-tight pants. “You haven’t, but thanks.” As Turner
took a quick drink, Luca ground his narrow hips against his
ass, and Turner almost choked.
“Come dance with me,” Luca said.
Turner arched an eyebrow and glanced over his
shoulder. “You really want to?”
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“Would I ask if I didn’t?” He tugged at his belt. “You’re
always so uptight. Relax a little.”
Turner threw back the rest of his drink for courage and
followed. He didn’t seem to have a choice. He would also kick
himself forever if he didn’t comply.
On the floor, Turner got the impression Luca didn’t care
if he danced, he just wanted someone to watch him dance.
People were packed around them, writhing and jerking,
moving to the insistent rhythm of the music. The air felt
heavy, like a tangible thing pressed against Turner’s back
and shoulders. Couples around them were making out.
Turner caught glimpses of things he didn’t want to think
about, things he didn’t want to want.
Luca looked amazing in the constantly changing,
pulsing light. The colors ran over him like water, over his
pale skin and fine cheekbones, glowing in his wide,
shimmering eyes, ringed darkly with eyeliner. He tossed his
hair and moved his hips, putting Turner in a trance.
He barely had his senses when Luca grabbed his hands
and put them on his body. Luca wore vinyl pants and a silk
shirt, and both fabrics felt exquisite under his fingers. He
thought he might be dreaming. Then Luca turned and
pressed his back against his chest, and he instinctively knew
he had permission to touch wherever he wanted. He
caressed his hands over Luca’s chest, down his hips, across
his thighs, getting bolder as Luca responded positively. He
couldn’t have hid his erection if he wanted to, and Turner
didn’t even try, pressing fully against Luca’s ass.
Then, the music ended and Luca abruptly withdrew,
saying he wanted a drink. Turner followed him to the bar,
head spinning, aching with desire. To his dismay, when they
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reached the bar, Christian appeared. He seemed peeved
they’d left him behind and started berating Luca. After this
outburst, Luca turned all his attention on Christian. Turner,
feeling like he’d had cold water thrown on him and not
knowing what to do, bowed out and left the club.
He had scarcely got through the door of his apartment
when he unzipped his jeans and started furiously stroking
his cock. Despite the sudden damper, he’d stayed hard all
the way home, the feel of Luca’s body emblazoned on his
senses. He fell on the couch and closed his eyes, picturing
Luca’s face in the club lights. When he came, he shot in hot
bursts across his stomach, saying Luca’s name.
Luca never brought up the incident: no apology, no
explanation, thankfully no declaration he’d experienced a
drug-induced moment of bad decision-making. Like
everything else about Luca, his motivation for driving Turner
out of his mind remained a mystery.
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2.
S
ALTO
went through three drummers in the space of a year
before Alex Collins came along. They were settling into their
skins, figuring out who they were as musicians and, more
importantly, as a group. Tempers flared high. All of them did
and said stupid things. None of their drummers seemed to fit
and would end up storming out when Luca inevitably,
invariably, pushed them over the edge.
“So what do you think of him?” Luca asked Turner the
night Alex auditioned. He had pulled Turner away, outside,
without Christian being asked along. Turner tried not to
revel in smugness.
“I think he’s good,” Turner said. The cold night made his
teeth chatter. Luca’s hair had gotten longer, dark on top with
blond tips. He still made ragged chic look good in his
charity-store clothes.
“Do you think he’ll work out?” Luca asked. “I mean, I’m
getting fucking sick of going through drummers. This isn’t
how a band is supposed to work. We’ll never get signed if we
can’t keep a drummer.”
Though talking to Turner, Luca stared cross the street,
where a group of kids were huddled. A nearby streetlight
traced his profile, his sharp nose and high cheekbones.
“He seems to know his stuff,” Turner said, trying to
sound wise when he felt anything but. “And he seems chill,
unlike the other guys. I think he’ll work out.” He wanted to
say, “if you don’t scare him off,” but he refrained.
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Luca nodded and said nothing else. No one knew, not
even Christian, that Turner had made the decision. At the
time, Turner prayed Alex worked out so he could win Luca’s
favor. Even when faced with practicalities, he found he
couldn’t see beyond the scope of his own longing.
Luca started across the street. “Hey, you guys got
anything I can score?”
Turner had played with other bands. Nothing ever
worked out, though. He always had to work some mind-
numbing job, laying out chords in his head while he slaved
away, sitting up at night after a long day doing something
pointless, practicing and dreaming. He wanted Luca’s vision
to work.
However, for unexplained reasons, Luca started
traveling a lot. His father, a wealthy man none of them had
ever met, regularly pumped money into his bank account.
Up until then, this blessing had been funding the band. Luca
continued writing songs, but practices happened less and
less frequently as he kept packing up and leaving the
country. When Turner questioned Christian about this weird
behavior, he just shook his head and said, “It’s Luca, man, I
don’t know. He doesn’t explain shit to me anymore.”
At least Turner had Alex to commiserate with. They
would meet up after work, have a few beers, bitch, and then
go home to mourn over their chosen instruments.
Then, Luca called Turner in the middle of the night. He
said it was daytime in Malaysia and he’d forgotten about the
time difference. Turner didn’t even know he was in Malaysia.
The next day Turner found his passport, received a plane
ticket Luca had paid for, and quit his job. Reckless, but Luca
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remained his siren, pulling him toward his destruction on
the rocks.
Malaysia proved unlike anything Turner had ever
experienced. He had never seen skies so wide and blue or
shorelines so vast, with towering cliffs rising above them.
Malaysia felt like a world in tune with nature, a breathtaking
combination of modern and ancient, where humanity
touched the Universe, where humans communicated with
the gods. When he stood on a cliff and gazed out across the
awesome expanse of water, for a moment he saw and
understood everything.
Malaysia changed him.
“Of course it’s dangerous, that’s what makes it so
exciting.” Luca sat by the fire in the little camp they’d made,
explaining to Turner the ins and outs of BASE jumping.
Turner heard the waves far below, crashing on the rocks, the
canvas of their tent popping and snapping, the wind
whistling over the cliff face.
“BASE is an acronym, for the four things we have to
jump off of,” Luca said, poking the fire with a long, gnarled
stick. “B is for buildings, like the Empire State Building… or
the Burj Khalifa. The Holy Grail.” He paused for a moment,
as though in reverence. “A is for antenna, you know, like the
really tall radio antennas? S is for span, like a bridge. And E
is for earth, like a cliff.” He gestured at the nighttime sea.
“Once you do all four, and it’s documented, you apply for a
number. Then you’re officially one of the coolest people in
the world.”
“None of this is legal, is it?” Turner asked, incredulous.
“I mean, they don’t just let people go around jumping off
buildings for thrills.”
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Luca looked sideways at him. “Not technically. That’s
why you hit the ground running.”
“And it can’t be completely safe, even with a parachute.
People have died, haven’t they?”
“Ah, that’s the kicker.” Luca continued poking the fire,
sending up sparks. “The catch to life. It always ends in
death.”
“I don’t want to watch you do it. I’d be terrified.”
“Why?” Luca chuckled.
“Why! I’d be afraid of watching you plummet to the
ground like a rock!”
“Why do you care if I die?”
Turner looked at him aghast. “Because! I don’t want you
to die. I’d like this band to go somewhere!”
“Is that the only reason?”
Turner realized Luca was baiting him and closed his
mouth, a flush spreading across his cheeks.
“Well, lucky you,” Luca said. “You missed it by a day.
Now I just have the S to conquer.”
After a few minutes, Luca got up. He walked over and
sat down right next to Turner, close enough their legs
touched. Luca had bundled himself up in a sweatshirt and
jacket. His scent scattered everywhere on the wind. Turner
could barely breathe. He felt like a descended god had just
sat down beside him.
“Luca,” Turner said. “I—”
Luca turned toward him and smiled gently. “It’s all
right. You can kiss me.”
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Luca had put on some weight, which looked good on
him, made his face fuller and his body less bony. When
Turner cupped his cheek, he found himself surprised Luca
wasn’t made out of mist, impossible to grasp. Instead he felt
warm and real, stubble and the hard bone of his jaw, solid
and human. His lips were soft. His tongue tasted like honey.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time.” Turner’s voice
faltered. He found he couldn’t look him in the eye. “I’ve
always wondered, since that night in the club—”
“I know you have.”
“I didn’t know if it was just some one-off thing for you.”
Turner tried not to sound like a desperate teenage boy. “I
thought you might be high and you didn’t even remember it.”
“I was high, but I remember. Also, I’m off the powder
now. I don’t do it anymore.”
Turner looked at him in surprise. “You are? That’s
great!”
“I know I haven’t told you guys, but that’s why I’ve been
traveling so much. It’s not just for BASE jumping, though
I’ve been doing that too. I had to get my head on straight. I
needed to be away from all the shit back home that pulls me
into it. My dad also told me there’d be no more money if I
didn’t go to rehab.” He leaned forward with a little smile. “I
could never do rehab. I had to do it on my own. So I told my
dad that’s where I was, even though I wasn’t.”
Finally, a little crack in the wall. The real Luca shining
through. “You don’t know how glad I am you told me that,”
Turner said softly.
“Turner.” Something in Luca’s voice told him they were
about to go over the edge, to plunge into something scary
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and beautiful. “Talk to me.” Luca’s voice fell. “Tell me what
you need to say.”
“I—”
“Tell me.” His voice dropped again, almost to a whisper.
“Turner.”
“I can’t. I’m not like you. I can’t just jump into the
unknown.”
“Well then, I guess I’ll have to push you.”
Luca lurched toward him, and for one sickening second,
Turner thought he intended to literally push him, right off
the cliff. However, he shoved his hands under Turner’s open
jacket and gripped his T-shirt, balling the fabric in his fists
so it jerked up under his armpits. They toppled sideways, off
the rock they’d been sitting on, and Luca got on top of him.
Luca crushed his mouth against his, a harder kiss than
Turner had ever experienced with anyone else, stealing all
his breath and forcing his lips open. Luca pushed his tongue
against his, and Turner pushed back, the struggle wet and
frantic and heated.
A million thoughts raced into Turner’s mind and then
right back out, but the one that stuck was the realization
Luca actually had some bulk. He felt heavy and solid on top
of him, pinning him down and making struggle impossible,
even if Turner had wanted to get away. Luca broke the kiss,
leaving Turner’s lips swollen and tingling, and he would have
been able to breathe again if his heart wasn’t lodged in his
throat.
“Christ,” Turner gasped. Luca remained on top of him,
Turner keenly aware of his body heat and of his own tense,
trembling muscles.
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“Let’s go in the tent,” Luca whispered.
Inside the tent, the firelight filtered dimly through the
canvas. There didn’t seem to be enough room for both of
them in the small, close space, but Luca got on top of him
again.
“I don’t know what to do,” Turner breathed out. He
gripped everything his hands could find—Luca’s shirt, his
shoulders, his arms, the sleeping bag beneath him. He felt
Luca drag his teeth across his jaw and tilted his head back.
“I don’t know how to—I’ve never done this, Luca.”
“It’s all right.” Luca’s voice, close to his ear, sounded
impossibly intimate. “We’ll just do what feels right.”
They both struggled out of their jackets; then Luca
jerked Turner’s shirt up and caressed a hand down his side,
over his stomach, up to his chest. So much sensation: Luca’s
mouth on his neck and shoulders, stubble brushing across
his skin. He pushed Luca’s shirt up as well. His body felt soft
and pliant, but his muscles were hard and thick beneath his
silken skin. A man, something Turner had always craved.
When Luca jerked at the button of Turner’s jeans, his
breath caught. He wanted to tell him so many things, ask
questions, be reassured, but only one inane thought would
pass through his lips. “Luca,” he gasped out. “I don’t want to
disappoint you.”
“What?” Luca asked, voice breathy. He undid the button
on Turner’s jeans, no hesitation. “Don’t worry so much. We
don’t have to have full-on sex. Just relax.”
Turner didn’t have the first clue how to proceed, but his
need drove him; he wanted something, some kind of contact,
a release, satisfaction. He helped Luca finish undoing his
jeans and pushed them down, and then Luca pushed his
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jeans down, and suddenly there was a lot of bare skin
pressed together.
“God!” Turner arched his back as Luca pressed his hips
down against him. “Luca, oh fuck.”
“Move your hips,” Luca whispered.
Turner complied with the request, shy and tentative at
first, until the pleasure took over. He then moved faster,
rubbing, grinding, rolling, feeling Luca slide against him, his
cock thick and hot against his own. He’d never felt anything
so sensual, so powerfully erotic. Their mouths met, both of
them panting, sucking in each other’s breath. Luca’s soft
grunts were swallowed up by the ever-increasing volume of
Turner’s moans. Turner finally lost all sense of timidity. He
forced one of his shoes off and kicked a leg free of his jeans;
he wrapped the bare leg around Luca’s waist, pulling him
down tighter, trying to create more friction. They had a
lovely, primal rhythm going, fast and hard, urging each other
on.
“There you go,” Luca gasped against his lips. “Fuck,
yes.”
Turner couldn’t get any words to form. He could only
focus on his slick, throbbing cock sliding against Luca’s
equally wet, rigid member. Though they weren’t fucking in
the conventional sense, Turner likened the sensation to
being fucked, pinned against the floor of the tent, his body
jolting with each movement. He gave himself over to the
feeling, to how much he wanted this, how impossibly
wonderful it was to finally be submitting to Luca.
Luca braced his hand on the floor bedside his head,
creating leverage. He used his other hand to hold his own
shirt up, no doubt out of the way of the mess shortly to
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come. Turner stared up into his eyes. Luca chewed on his
lower lip, his face a mask of intense concentration, hair
swinging around his head.
“Luca.” Turner’s breath caught on the word. “Luca…
gonna come… gonna make me come….”
“Me too,” Luca grunted out.
Turner reached his peak first, but only by seconds. He
jerked his hips so violently he nearly pushed Luca off,
coming harder than he could ever remember. He dug his
nails into Luca’s hips, groaning through clenched teeth.
“Luca!”
Luca lost his balance and fell against Turner’s
shuddering body as he added to the warm, wet mess
between them. He moaned and gasped against his neck,
fingers scrabbling on his shoulder. His cock jerked between
them, and Turner clung to him as the orgasm vibrated
through his body. The experience was almost better than his
own release.
For the next few minutes they said nothing, breathing
heavily, trembling, soaking in the quiet aftermath. Turner’s
limbs buzzed and his head swam. He had been shaken to his
soul.
Finally, Luca shifted on top of him. “You all right?” he
murmured.
“Yeah, I’m great. How are you?”
Luca emitted a breathy laugh. “I’m good.” A moment of
silence passed, and then he asked, “You don’t feel weird
about it, do you?”
“No.” Turner tried to look at him, but their faces were
too close. “No, no, I don’t. Do you?”
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Luca just shook his head.
Turner knew nothing would be the same from that
moment on. He had become a practicing bisexual. He had
also fallen in love.
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3.
W
HEN
they got back to the States, Luca announced they
had a record deal. Not a major label, but someone wanted to
sign them, make an album, and send them on a small tour
to drum up interest before the release. Turner suspected
Luca had known this before he went to Malaysia, but he
didn’t tell anyone else his suspicions. He somehow knew
Luca wanted to get his act together and be clean before
taking such a huge step.
Making an album proved both exciting and taxing.
Much more than music went into the production, and they
seemed to spend more time talking and planning—and
arguing—than actually creating the product. Turner
maintained a keen level of expectation, however, because
he’d never had “an album” before.
“What do you think of the cover design?” Luca pushed a
poster board across a gleaming Formica table. They were on
the fiftieth floor of an office building overlooking an LA
sunset. Christian stood by the windows, back to the glass,
watching Turner with narrowed eyes.
“I like it.” Turner picked up the poster board. “The
wings. I think they’re symbolic.”
“Of what?” Luca asked. He wore all white, and he had
shaved his head after they signed their album deal, claiming
he needed a fresh start. Like true male friends, they made up
cruel nicknames for him like “Aryan nation” and “penis
head.” Luca in return made chilling threats about taking
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clippers to their heads while they slept. Turner thought the
lack of hair looked oddly adorable on his tiny body, and he
liked to run his hand over the fuzz as it grew back in.
“Symbolic of freedom.” Turner gazed over the top of the
poster board into those all-knowing eyes. “Of falling, flying.
Into the great wide open.”
“That’s nice,” Luca whispered. Turner smiled. Christian
turned toward the windows.
The weeks up to the release of the album were stressful,
busy, and yet unspeakably wonderful. Turner felt as if he
were riding the curl of a wave yet to crash, and as far as he
could see, it never would. By the time the big event arrived,
Luca’s hair had grown out to a little more than a buzz cut,
dark and thick. He painted his face like a Noh mask for the
release party, to what purpose no one really knew, but then
Luca didn’t need a reason for anything. He seemed to glow
all night, lively and engaging, constantly smiling in Turner’s
direction. Turner walked around on air.
The tour began shortly after the album release. They
played a few sparsely attended shows on their own around
southern California, but most of their performances involved
opening for other, bigger bands. Album sales were lukewarm,
and they seemed to give more away than they sold. The first
time they heard one of their songs on the radio—just part of
a local music show in LA, but still—they all sat in quiet awe.
They gave interviews to anyone who would talk to them.
Then, of course, things started to go sour.
Christian seemed to have a growing issue with Turner
and Luca’s closeness and with Turner’s presence in general.
They argued over trivial things, like set lists and how to
stack gear. Then Christian started sabotaging Turner, telling
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him the wrong time for practices or when to show up at a
venue so he would be late, which infuriated Luca. He
devolved to even pettier things like hiding the strings for
Turner’s guitar and taking items out of his duffel bag. He
also made sure he and Luca were hardly ever alone.
Then, one night after a show, things finally went too far.
Christian almost damaged Turner’s guitar, tossing a bag on
top of the instrument in their tour van. Luca wasn’t around,
and Turner gave in to his rage. He shoved Christian and
called him a “petty, jealous bitch.” Christian punched him—
only once, though. Turner saw, as soon as Christian hit him,
all the anger in him drain out, to be replaced by obvious,
shamefaced regret.
“I’m not trying to take him away from you,” Turner told
him a few minutes later, sitting on the curb with a bag of ice
Christian had brought him pressed to his jaw.
“I know.” Christian flexed the swollen knuckles of his
right hand. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”
Turner didn’t tell Luca about the incident. However,
Luca started behaving strangely, and he knew Christian had.
Luca made himself less available to Turner, and he seemed
reluctant to show affection when they were alone. He
suddenly cancelled their planned weekend trip to
Washington State as some vague prior commitment came
up. Turner’s heart sank to his feet. He saw in a blinding
flash a bleak and oft-repeated future for him: the dissolution
of friendships, the breaking up of the band, wandering on to
the next job. He had never had an album before, and the
thought of losing everything hurt a lot this time. Worse, he
had never had a Luca before.
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Then, Christian suddenly got a girlfriend. While
Christian would date, he never committed to anyone, never
had anyone steady. Turner wondered at the sudden change
of personality. He wondered if Luca had encouraged him to
find someone, if at some point their relationship had been
more than friendship and Luca was finally forcing him to
move on.
They took a break over Christmas, and Turner went to
spend the holiday with his family in a suburb of San
Francisco. Part of him wondered if he’d ever be getting back
on stage again. He called and spoke to Alex a couple times.
Christian wouldn’t answer his phone. He texted Luca, but he
didn’t text back, and Turner was too afraid to call him. He
didn’t want to hear him say it was over: the band, and them.
Then, on Christmas Eve, Turner opened the door and
found Luca standing on his parents’ front steps. He wore
mismatched clothes, and his hair had grown out to a thick,
unruly shag.
Turner just stared at him. Luca stared back. Then he
held up something small and square, wrapped in silver
paper. “I brought you a present,” Luca said, the little white
lights around the door sparkling in his eyes.
Turner opened his mouth, hesitated. “You—didn’t
answer my texts,” he finally said.
“I don’t like texting. Why didn’t you call me?”
Turner felt foolish. “I… I thought it might be over.
Between us. And the band.”
Luca furrowed his brow. “Why would you think that?”
“You’ve been distant. And weird.” His sense of
foolishness increased. “I mean, after the whole thing with
Christian.”
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“Christian needed to get his shit together, and I set him
on the right path. I thought it would be easier for him if he
didn’t see us together for a while. He’s still smarting, but
he’ll get over it.”
“Oh.” Turner wanted to berate him for putting him
through hell instead of just talking to him and telling him
this. Then he realized he didn’t care; he was just glad to see
him.
“Can I come in?” Luca asked.
Turner let him inside. They sat down on the couch
together. Luca gave him the box and told him to unwrap it.
Inside the box, Turner found a necklace: a little oval-
shaped silver pendant on a gold chain.
“I got that in Malaysia for you,” Luca said. “It’s
supposed to be a protective charm. It wards off misfortune. I
just… never found the right time to give it to you.”
Luca fastened the chain around his neck, and Turner
slid his fingertips over the pendant, smiling. “I’m all about
warding off misfortune.” He looked over his shoulder. “I’m
fucking mad at you for not just talking to me, you know.”
“I know,” Luca said softly. “I’ll get better at this, I
promise.”
Turner knew then everything would be all right.
Luca met his parents. They were gracious despite
knowing little about rock and roll and never having been to
one of their shows. They had heard the album, of course, but
beyond the obligatory pride for Turner’s accomplishment, he
doubted they were playing tracks for their friends at his
mother’s weekly dinners. After his parents left to attend
midnight Mass, he and Luca sat on the couch, the lights off
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and the glow of the Christmas tree filling the living room.
They both had rum-spiked eggnog, and Luca snuggled up to
his side, his arm across Turner’s stomach.
“Can I stay here tonight?” Luca asked. “It’s a long drive
back. If you don’t have an extra bed, I can sleep on the
couch here. If your parents wouldn’t mind.”
Turner tilted his chin down to look at him. Their gazes
met, and the muted, amber light from the tree shone in
Luca’s eyes.
“I doubt my parents would mind. And my mother will
make us a huge breakfast in the morning. She always does
on Christmas. I still have my room here. You could—sleep in
my bed.”
“Could I?”
They hadn’t moved much past the physical level they’d
achieved in the tent in Malaysia, partly because they were so
busy, partly because spending so much time with two other
guys in a van eliminated all privacy. They fooled around
when they caught rare moments alone, but actual sex hadn’t
happened yet. However, Turner had sensed the tension
building before his little falling-out with Christian. Neither of
them moved to fulfill the desire though, and it hung, an
unspoken question, heavy and ever present between them.
Turner nodded slowly, not breaking the gaze. “I’d like it
if you spent the night,” he said softly. “In my bed.” He
became suddenly, keenly aware of the heat and weight of
Luca’s body pressed against his side. His hand rested on
Luca’s back, and he curled his fingers in the fabric of his
shirt.
“Are you sure?” Luca asked, his voice as gentle as his
expression. For once, his all-consuming intensity had
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vanished—if not gone completely, at least dormant. “Are you
ready?”
“I think I am.”
“You don’t sound so sure.”
Turner blushed, glad the lights were off. “Don’t worry,
I’m not as delicate as I seem.” He smiled. “I’m not a timid,
wilting virgin.”
“You are in this respect.”
“A virgin maybe.” He took Luca’s hand and pressed it
into his crotch. “Definitely not wilting.”
Luca grinned widely, his teeth gleaming. “Show me your
bedroom.”
Though many of his childhood belongings were packed
in boxes and stacked in his old room—the space now little
more than a storage area for his past—his bed was still
there, some of his clothes still hung in the closet, and a few
of his heavy metal posters from his teenage years still graced
the walls. His mother had put fresh linens on the bed and
opened up the heater vents so the room was warm.
Luca chortled at a few of the posters but didn’t
comment. Turner left the lamp on beside the bed. When they
were lying on the bed facing each other, gazing into each
other’s eyes, Turner rested his hand on Luca’s chest. He
could feel his heartbeat, quick and vital against his palm.
“You look terrified,” Luca murmured.
“No,” Turner said softly. “Awed.” He rubbed his hand in
slow circles for a moment and then stopped. “Why don’t we
get undressed?”
“You read my mind.”
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They had seen each other naked before—still, after his
clothes were off, Turner pulled back the covers and slid
under them, overcome with shyness. Luca joined him
beneath the blanket, equally naked.
“We don’t have to rush this time,” Luca said, scooting
closer. “That’s a treat.”
“It is,” Turner said. He reached out to touch him. He slid
a hand up his side, fingertips tracing his ribs. He seemed so
thin and delicate that Turner felt like he was trying to hold
him in one hand. He had touched him plenty of times, in
every place imaginable, but for some reason the experience
seemed completely new. When he reached Luca’s chest, he
moved his hand inward and grazed his thumb over his
nipple and felt it harden in response.
“Turner,” Luca whispered, and shifted against him,
pressing warm, silky skin to his. Turner slid his hand
around and slipped it down Luca’s back, to where the covers
were around his waist. “Kiss me,” Luca said.
They kissed, tongues tangling, tastes mingling. Arousal
washed over Turner like someone had poured a cup of warm
liquid over his head. The sensation ran down his body in
slow rivulets and pooled in his groin.
Turner continued exploring, touching. Though slender,
Luca had a lot of muscle in his upper arms and chest. His
bones stuck out at hard angles beneath his taut flesh, but
Turner liked how those things felt, smooth and well defined.
He traced the line of hair just below Luca’s navel, plunging
downward in a sparse, narrow trail. Luca’s breath caught
when he slid a fingertip down the sleek shaft of his cock.
Turner wrapped his fingers around the base and slid his fist
up the hot, silken length until he reached the head. Wetness
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leaked from the tip, and he smeared the fluid with his
thumb. He felt Luca tremble and drew back to look at his
face, smiling silently.
Luca gazed back at him, the intensity having returned
to his expression. Turner adored the yearning in his eyes. He
often looked this way—determined, yet needy—when they
had their encounters.
“This isn’t fair,” Luca said. He rose up on one elbow. “I
want to touch you too. Lie back.”
Turner chuckled. “You can’t relinquish control for a
moment, can you?” He took his hand off his cock.
“You won’t be complaining, trust me.”
Turner lay back, and though nervous about things to
come, as soon as Luca began exploring his body, he melted
into the mattress. The room grew hazy and the light beside
the bed seemed to brighten. Luca left no inch of him
untouched, hands moving slow and deliberately, fingers
finding curves and crevices he didn’t even know he had. He
even touched his fingers and palms and ran his fingertips up
his arms, to his shoulders, and over his armpits as Turner
put his arms above his head. He caressed his chest, plucked
his nipples, and moved down to his stomach—softer than
Luca’s, flat but not tight. Then he brushed his fingertips
down his thighs, and Turner parted them instinctively.
He made a sound in his throat when Luca touched his
cock, making it twitch. Luca gazed at him with a lazy,
lopsided smile, his eyes limpid.
“You’re so sensitive,” Luca said. “I like how you
respond.” He wrapped his hand around Turner’s cock, like
he’d done many times before, but the sensation was so
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incredible this time it brought Turner’s hips off the mattress.
Luca stroked slowly, smoothly, his grip firm.
“You bring that out of me,” Turner said, his voice
shuddering. “Every time.” He urged Luca up for another kiss
as he pushed into the tight, warm circle of his hand. He had
to resist the urge to thrust his hips and work himself to
completion right away.
Finally, unable to fight his need and fearing he’d go off
like an inexperienced teenager, he gripped Luca’s wrist and
made him stop. He pushed Luca onto his back and kissed
and nuzzled down his chest. He paused to suck on one of his
stiff, dusky nipples.
Luca chuckled softly. “I’m not the only one who wants to
be in control, it seems.” He caressed Turner’s hair, breath
hitching in his chest.
“You’re just irresistible, is all.”
Turner gently nibbled each nipple in turn and then
moved downward, locating the fine trail of hair streaking
down Luca’s belly and following the path to the enticing
valley of his navel. He completed his journey by nuzzling into
the thick bush of soft hair at the base of his cock.
“Mmm,” Luca said above him. “I think I can let you be in
charge for a while.”
The first time Turner gave Luca head, the whole affair
had been awkward, and he’d learned quickly that just
because he’d received blow jobs before didn’t mean he knew
how to give them. He got better with practice.
He slid his mouth over the head, lips fitting nicely into
the groove beneath without much strain to his jaw. Then he
took more, but he still couldn’t get too deep without choking.
Mostly he used his hand, stroking what he couldn’t get in his
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mouth as he bobbed his head. He loved how Luca tasted,
salty and clean. He liked the way he smelled too, the musk of
his groin distinctly unlike a woman, not necessarily better or
more arousing, just different and exciting.
“You’re getting better at that,” Luca said. Turner
continued stroking and sucking until Luca gripped the back
of his hair and made him stop.
“Enough,” he said in a husky whisper. “I don’t want to
get off like this. I’d rather save it for something else.”
Turner released him, palm wet and fingers sticky.
Luca’s taste lingered in his mouth. Turner caressed his legs
and found the first soft spot on him—the silky, fleshy stretch
of his inner thighs. Luca flinched under his fingers.
“Get up here and lie back,” Luca said. “I owe you now.”
Turner smiled and sat up. “Well, if you insist.” He did as
instructed.
Luca knew exactly how to give head, and he was good at
it. He slid Turner’s cock deep into his mouth, his tongue
caressing the underside of the shaft. The stubble on his chin
brushed against his balls with each downward stroke, at
first tickling and then becoming maddening torture. Turner
squirmed and gripped his hair. Luca continued sucking,
using his expert technique, until Turner thought he might
start screaming.
“I don’t want to go off like this either,” he said, panting
and trembling. “Luca—”
Luca popped his mouth off. He nuzzled and licked his
hip, gazing up at him. “I remember the first time I did that to
you.” He curled his lips in a wicked smile. “I’ve never seen
anyone come so fast in my life.”
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Turner blushed but smiled. “What can I say? You make
me feel like a teenager again. A bumbling, sexually frustrated
teenager.”
Luca crawled up his body and captured his lips in a
warm, wet kiss. Turner could taste himself, but he didn’t
mind at all. Then Luca drew away and nuzzled his ear. “I
brought condoms,” he whispered. “And lube.”
“Thought you were getting lucky, did you?” Nervousness
fluttered anew in his stomach.
Luca lifted his head and looked down at him. “I always
have them with me. So when the time is right, we’ll be
prepared.”
“You’ve always been the industrious one.”
Luca slid off of him, pushed back the covers, and got
out of bed. Turner lay sprawled, watching him, taking in the
sight of his lean, naked body while he dug through his duffel
bag on a box near the door. He’d gone out to the van and
grabbed his stuff after Turner told him he could stay.
He returned to the bed with a small, clear bottle and a
square, red packet. He slipped back under the covers.
“Here.” Luca held the condom out to him. Turner took
the packet with a raised eyebrow. “I’m a bottom.” Luca
shrugged one slender, bare shoulder. “I’ve tried topping a
couple times, but it’s not my thing. I like receiving better.”
“Wow.”
“Are you that surprised?”
“It’s… startlingly ironic, let’s put it that way.”
“I don’t always have to be in control.” He lay down on
his back and handed the lube over as well. “Sometimes it’s
nice to let someone else take the wheel.”
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Turner had the opportunity to feel like a bumbling
virgin again, as he had never penetrated him even with his
fingers. Luca lay on his back and drew his legs up, hands
beneath his knees. Turner used a generous amount of lube—
too much, probably—because he didn’t want to hurt him.
Luca relaxed, but getting even one finger inside him took
patience, and he felt so tight Turner wondered frantically
how he’d get his cock in without ripping him apart. He tried
to calm down and remind himself everyone was that tight
inside, and plenty of people had anal sex without getting
grievously wounded.
Luca, far from expressing discomfort or pain, seemed to
enjoy the intrusion instead. He moaned softly, biting his lip.
After a while he urged Turner to put a second finger in, and
he reluctantly did.
“I’ll let you know when I feel ready,” Luca whispered.
Turner watched his face, pushing deeper, getting a little
bolder. He ached with need even through the nervousness,
fully aware what came next, what he’d finally experience.
After a time Luca breathed out, “Okay.” Turner carefully
withdrew his fingers. His hands shook while he put the
condom on.
He hesitated at the last moment, but Luca looked up at
him with such an open, encouraging gaze he knew he
couldn’t turn back. He braced his hands on the bed, the
necklace dangling between them, swinging gently. Luca put
his knees over Turner’s hips. Though the angle seemed
awkward and wrong, Luca reached down and gripped
Turner’s cock to guide him, and he breached him easily.
“Just push in,” Luca told him. “But take it slow.”
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Turner pushed and Luca gasped, eyes fluttering and
closing, and tilted his head back as Turner slowly, carefully
penetrated him. Once fully sheathed, Turner stilled for a
moment, enjoying the connection, feeling a completeness
he’d been longing to have with Luca for ages.
“Turner,” Luca whispered, lowering his chin and looking
at him. Strands of hair stuck to his forehead, and his lips
were parted. He looked beautiful.
“Are you all right?” Turner asked. “It doesn’t hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Luca said. “Go ahead.”
The entire world seemed to fade—the days ahead and
those behind, all the emotional trials they’d been through to
get there. They were suspended in a bubble, alone with each
other.
Turner moved slowly at first, thrusting carefully into the
tight heat. He closed his eyes against the intensity of the
sensation, overwhelmed. He heard Luca’s soft gasps every
time he buried himself, felt the way he drew him in and
clenched around him each time he withdrew, as if he never
meant to let him go.
Turner wanted the sex to go on forever but knew,
regrettably, he wouldn’t last long. Luca urged him to go
faster, and Turner did, making his thrusts hard and deep.
He stroked Luca’s cock beneath him, marveling at how full
and stiff he was. After just a few, frantic minutes of thrusting
and stroking, Luca emitted a harsh cry and clenched almost
painfully tight around him. His cock jerked in Turner’s hand,
and pearly fluid spurted out in thick, generous bursts across
his sweaty stomach. Turner was so shocked Luca had come
first, he almost laughed.
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He had never seen anything so incredibly erotic as
Luca’s face during his orgasm, eyelids fluttering, cheeks
flushed, mouth open. A few hard, urgent thrusts and Turner
peaked as well. He said Luca’s name as he came, the way he
had the night after the club, when he’d stroked himself to
the fantasy of Luca dancing in front of him. He filled the
condom in a hot rush, the orgasm racing down his spine and
stiffening all his muscles, so powerful he thought he might
pass out.
For a long moment the world buzzed, soft at the edges
like a dream, and then Turner slowly came down from the
cloud he’d been on.
“Fuck,” Luca panted, hot and pliant and trembling
beneath him. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
“Eloquently put,” Turner said. He groaned and slumped
over on top of him. He then carefully slid out, peeled the
condom off, and dropped it in the trashcan next to the bed.
Lying on his back, sweat cooling on his skin, he gazed
up at the ceiling in a sated daze. Luca rolled onto his side
and dropped an arm across his chest. Turner scrabbled
weakly at his throat, found the pendant, and clutched it in
his fist.
“Why did we wait so long to do that?” Luca asked, head
resting on his shoulder. His voice vibrated against Turner’s
arm.
“Because we’re stupid.” He turned his face and nuzzled
in Luca’s hair, the strands damp with sweat. “Thank you,”
Turner whispered. “For being my first.”
Luca patted his side. “Merry Christmas.”
“Indeed.”
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4.
T
URNER
foolishly thought, with so much to focus on and
distract him, Luca would forget all about BASE jumping.
However, the daredevil blood pumping through his veins
wouldn’t allow him to sit back and lead a safe life for long.
After the New Year, his jumper friends came calling, and he
went to play with them almost every week, traveling to
southern California to jump off cliffs. He invited Turner along
every time he made the trip, and each time, Turner refused.
He spent those days sick with fear until Luca called on his
way home.
Luca seemed to become intoxicated—intoxicated by
being on top of the world, literally and figuratively. He told
Turner one night, after a particularly rambunctious round of
sex, being onstage reminded him of being on top of a cliff
and looking out into infinity. But he could only jump so far
from the stage.
Turner begged him to stop, to consider they now had a
future and replacing a lead singer wasn’t something they
wanted to have to do. Christian asked him to stop as well,
now having mellowed out and become rather buddy-buddy
with Turner. Luca laughed and shook his head as if they
were both unwitting children. Didn’t they know if his
parachute didn’t open he would sprout wings and fly?
When spring came, their band started getting booked to
play outdoor venues and various festivals. This culminated
in being invited to a big music festival in Sacramento. They
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were ecstatic to play—the biggest crowd so far, the perfect
opportunity to promote themselves to a wider audience. They
also heard through the grapevine that several big record
labels were going to be there, scouting.
Luca wanted to leave for the festival a day early and do
some sightseeing, since they would be in the Sierra Nevada
foothills and the country boasted beautiful scenery. For
some reason, Turner didn’t put two and two together until
they were at their hotel and Christian summoned him to the
room he and Alex were sharing. He showed Turner a picture
on his laptop.
“That’s the Foresthill Bridge,” he said. “Tallest bridge on
the west coast. And it’s about, oh, let’s just say, well within
driving distance of here.”
Turner’s blood ran cold. He almost threw up walking
back to the room he and Luca were sharing. As soon as he
opened the door and saw the familiar glint in Luca’s eyes, he
knew what Christian had already known, probably long
before they arrived.
“Why didn’t you tell me the truth?” Turner paced back
and forth.
Luca sat on the bed, hands folded in his lap, affecting
an air of innocence. “You know I need my S.”
“We have one of the most important shows of our career
tomorrow!” Turner stopped and glared at him. “Do you think
you can play that show dead?”
Luca rolled his eyes and stood up. “I have a couple
hours before I jump. I thought we could spend it together.”
He walked over to Turner and slid a finger down his chest to
his stomach. “A little good-luck sex?” He stopped at the top
of Turner’s jeans and tugged.
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Turner pushed his hand away; Luca put it back.
“We need to talk about this.”
“No, we don’t.”
“Yes, we do! Luca, this isn’t just about you!”
Luca dropped to his knees and gripped the front of his
jeans with both hands. “Go ahead and talk, then. My mouth
is going to be full.” He popped the button.
“Luca!”
“Go ahead, talk.” He yanked down the zipper.
Turner couldn’t concentrate on his rage, feeling the
warm gust of Luca’s breath against his lower belly, the tip of
his nose brushing above his navel. Luca curled his fingers in
the top of Turner’s jeans, above his hips, digging underneath
to collect the elastic of his briefs as well, and tugged both
down.
“Luca, I swear to God, do not put my cock in your
mouth when I’m trying to talk some sense into you!”
“Or what?”
Luca wrapped his hand around his limp shaft, palm
warm and clammy. Despite Turner’s outrage, despite his
desire to struggle away and continue with the berating, his
cock started to swell in response to the touch it had grown
so accustomed to equating with pleasure.
“Maybe we should talk after I take care of this.” Luca
leaned over, his hair ghosting across Turner’s thighs, and
gave him a long lick from root to head. His tongue felt so
very hot and soft, and Turner responded by growing harder.
“I swear to fucking God, Luca,” Turner said through
clenched teeth. “You are the most incorrigible, pain-in-the-
ass….”
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“Incorrigible,” Luca said. “I like that.”
He used his tongue some more, lapping, swirling,
wiggling the little appendage up against the sensitive spot
beneath the head, and finally nudging the tip gently into the
slit. Turner rolled his eyes back in his head and then closed
them so he wouldn’t blind himself. He gripped the edge of
the vanity behind him.
Luca worked the shaft with slow strokes, aided by the
coating of saliva he’d applied. “Still want to argue?” he
asked.
“Yes. We’ll argue after.”
Luca slid his mouth over him, just the head, forming a
tight ring with his lips. He sucked, creating a light pressure
around the ridge where the head met the shaft. Then he
sucked harder until the pressure became tight and sharp.
“Ah!” Turner pushed at his head. “Stop it!”
Luca stopped sucking and slid his mouth down the
shaft, the exquisite feeling after the hard, intense suction
making Turner’s hips buck.
“Christ!” He clenched his fingers in Luca’s hair.
Luca took him smooth and deep, almost to the base,
before he slid his mouth back up and began a slow, steady
bobbing. He applied just the right amount of pressure,
tongue sliding slickly against the underside of the shaft, his
lips creating a cushion between Turner’s flesh and his teeth.
He had the fingers of one hand laced loosely around the base
of his cock while the other hand rested on his thigh, gently
kneading.
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Turner quickly began squirming, anxious and restless
and entirely focused on release, Luca’s persistent mouth
pulling him closer and closer to the edge.
“You’re about to get a mouthful,” Turner warned, feeling
the frantic urge building in his stomach. He still had his
hand in Luca’s hair but had the presence of mind to let go,
in case he didn’t want a shot down the throat. Turner braced
himself against the vanity.
“Coming!” he choked out. He shuddered as waves of
pleasure rocked through him. Luca promptly slid his mouth
off, wrapped his hand tightly around the shaft, and stroked
firmly. He kept his open mouth close to the head, so close
Turner felt his bottom lip brush against him, and caught
each spurt gracefully on his tongue. Then he closed his
mouth and swallowed.
Turner slumped against the vanity, panting. “Oh my
God.” He gazed down at Luca in disbelief. “Fuck you.”
Luca smiled and licked his lips. “You’re welcome.”
“This doesn’t change anything!”
“Well, I guess I’ll have to keep at it until it does.”
Later, after a lot of arguing and some more sexual
bargaining on Luca’s part, Turner watched Luca untangle
himself from the sweaty sheets and roll away. The golden
light of early afternoon slanted through the window, and
Turner knew the time had come.
“Please don’t fucking do it?” he asked. He knew the plea
was pointless though. Nothing he could say or do would stop
him. Luca hauled himself off the bed.
“Quit being such a mother. Do you think I would do it if
I wasn’t sure of myself?”
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“I hate that you tricked us into coming here so you
could do this. That you tricked me.”
Luca bent over and picked up his shirt from the floor.
Then he paused and looked Turner in the eyes, intense and
serious. “I want you to come watch. Please.”
“No fucking way. I couldn’t handle watching you jump
off a bridge.”
“I want you to come watch because this is my last jump.
I want you to be there for it.”
Turner just stared at him.
“I’m serious. This is the final one.” He pulled his shirt
on and popped his head through the collar. “I become
official, and I’ll never do it again. I swear. I promise.” He
tugged the bottom of the shirt over his stomach, still
absurdly bare from the waist down. “I want you to be there.
It’s a big deal for me.”
“Luca….”
“Please?” He crawled on the bed and rested on his
elbows, hands clasped beneath his chin in supplication. He
gazed at Turner with huge, vivid, pleading eyes. “Please,
please?”
“Oh, Christ.” Turner knew he would have nightmares for
weeks, but he could deny Luca nothing when he looked at
him that way.
Turner showered, fighting back nervous nausea the
entire time, and suddenly remembered something, afterward,
while getting dressed. He searched frantically through his
clothes, his suitcase. “Fuck! Where is it?”
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| 40
“Where’s what?” Luca had apparently hidden his
parachute in the van, as he now had the pack on the bed,
doing an inspection.
“My necklace!” Turner dug through the pockets of his
jeans but came up with nothing. “I don’t remember where I
put it when I took it off!” He always took the pendant off
during sex because they’d snapped the chain twice by
accident.
Luca helped him search—his clothes, the bed, the floor,
the bathroom—but they couldn’t find it. Turner, aside from
being upset he’d lost his most cherished gift, thought the
disappearance foretold a terrible omen.
“Please don’t do this,” Turner begged as they drove to
the bridge. He touched his neck restlessly as if the necklace
might reappear. “Luca, I have a bad feeling about this.”
Luca shot him a disparaging look. “Knock it off.
Everything is going to be fine. Jesus, you’re making me
nervous.”
The drive to the bridge only took about twenty
minutes—twenty very tense, harrowing minutes—and the
destination proved even more terrifying than Turner’s worst
imaginings. The bridge loomed breathtakingly high above a
narrow, winding river, the structure looking as ancient as
the steep, tree-lined slopes on either side. After getting out of
the van, Luca instructed Turner to follow a path down into
the gorge where he said a group of spectators were gathered
to watch and document everything.
“If you see police or troopers or anything,” Luca said,
“just run, take the van. Don’t wait for me. I’ll meet you back
at the hotel.”
“Luca.”
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“Give me a kiss for luck.”
Turner did. He prayed fervently the kiss wouldn’t be
their last. Then Luca walked away, and he couldn’t do
another thing to try and stop him.
Down by the river, a handful of people—far more jovial
than Turner—stood around chatting, some holding video
cameras. Two other people were jumping besides Luca.
Turner sat on a rock, away from the others, gazing up at the
three tiny figures against the clear blue sky. The tension and
the heat of the afternoon sun filling the gorge made him
sweat profusely. He didn’t think he could sit there long,
waiting, barely breathing. Luckily he didn’t have to.
When the first one jumped, Turner cringed. He could
see Luca, in his bright green T-shirt, standing at the railing.
A parachute opened almost as soon as the figure leapt from
the bridge, and the person floated gently downward. Two
girls took off running and shrieking in delight. They splashed
through the water and made their way toward where the
jumper landed deftly on the left bank.
The second person jumped. Turner bent over and
started to dry heave. He knew he was probably the world’s
biggest pussy, but he didn’t care.
Then, it was Luca’s turn.
Turner couldn’t stand the anticipation, staring up at
him on the bridge. He saw him climb over the railing and
turn around so he faced outward, into the great wide open.
Turner stared, wanting to look away, unable to.
Luca jumped. For a moment, nothing prevented his
impact with the earth far below—he was suspended in the
air, truly flying. Then his chute deployed, billowing above
him like a great white cloud. His descent slowed, his drop
Risky |
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more or less controlled. Turner almost burst out crying with
relief, but then something happened.
The other two jumpers had angled for the left bank and
landed there with ease. Luca seemed to be going the same
direction, but then a gust of wind yanked his chute. He flew
sharply to the right and began to fall faster, plummeting out
of control. Only a few seconds passed between the gust and
his impact on the right bank, but Turner saw everything in
slow motion. Luca crashed into the ground going too fast,
and his chute tangled in the trees. A horrified gasp rose from
the other spectators.
“No! Fuck!” Turner screamed.
The river was thankfully shallow and narrow where they
were, and Turner crossed the water quickly, jeans soaked to
the knees by the time he reached the other bank. He heard
the others following, someone shouting to call 911. He
scrambled up the right bank, toward the white chute in the
forest of green. Turner’s heart slammed into his throat,
choking off his breath.
He expected to find Luca twisted and broken, but he
merely lay sprawled in the dirt, wrapped up in the lines of
his parachute, eyes open and dazed. Turner didn’t know if
he wanted to scoop him up in his arms or punch him.
“Is he all right?” a woman asked, close on Turner’s
heels. “Jesus fucking Christ! He’s gotta be made of steel!”
They looked him over and found no body parts
unnaturally twisted or bloody, and tried to untangle him
from the chute. “I’m all right,” Luca wheezed. “I just had the
wind knocked out of me.”
Luca insisted they get him out of the gorge before any
police or rescue people came. Turner and several others took
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| 43
him to the hospital, where they told the doctors he’d slipped
while hiking and tumbled down an incline. When a doctor
finally told them Luca had only suffered two cracked ribs, a
sprained wrist, and a lot of bruises, Turner could finally
breathe again. He called Christian, who had been waiting
just as eagerly for the news.
During the drive back to the hotel, profound silence
filled the van. Neither Turner nor Luca spoke, Luca staring
out his window and Turner at the road. In the hotel parking
lot, Turner collapsed against the steering wheel and sobbed.
Luca wrapped his arms around him and whispered, “I’m so
fucking sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me.”
Once in the room, Turner went to the bathroom and
splashed water on his face. After, he gazed at himself in the
mirror above the sink, noting how spooked he still looked.
He probably would for days. His muscles were weak from
having been so tense. He sighed and slogged out of the
bathroom. Luca had his shirt off, taking things out of his
pockets, tossing them on the vanity—keys, wallet, card for
the room. Turner pulled down the blankets on the bed.
Housekeeping had been in while they were gone.
“Turner.”
Turner looked up. Luca stood still, hand in his pocket,
eyes wide. Then he drew something out and held it up,
dangling. Turner’s necklace.
Turner just stared.
“How the hell did that get in there?” Luca asked with
wonder.
Turner swallowed thickly, tears pricking his eyes. “I
think someone was looking out for you today.”
Risky |
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| 44
5.
L
UCA
, true to his word, stopped jumping. When he got his
number, they had a little celebration for him; Turner
considered the joy all his, since he could finally sleep at
night.
In early summer, the world suddenly expanded with
possibility. A major record label, having seen them play at
the festival, started courting them as their contract with
their current label neared completion. Turner couldn’t
imagine how they’d impressed them, since Luca could barely
move at the festival and his lung capacity had been
diminished because of his ribs. Still, they had made a
positive impression. Promises of great things loomed in the
future. Luca wrote like a fiend all night and they recorded all
day, wanting a polished product to present to the new label.
One bright July morning in LA, Turner sat on the deck
of a beach house, gazing out at the ocean. Luca had rented
the house a month earlier so they had somewhere to
practice, and Turner finally moved in with him. Neither had
yet said, “We’re living together,” but they knew they were.
Everyone knew they were.
Turner watched the waves frolic on the beach, fingering
his necklace and thinking about the sea in Malaysia. Luca
walked outside. He had his hair in a ponytail and was
wearing a pair of pajama bottoms and flip-flops. He gazed
out at the ocean as well.
“Hey,” Turner said. “You get those lyrics worked out?”
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| 45
“Yeah, I think I like them now. I want you to take a look,
though.”
Turner nodded but didn’t move to get up. “You know, I
wanted to ask you something.”
“Yeah?” Luca looked down at him, squinting.
“You remember that restaurant we went to the night
you hired me? Here in LA? Do you remember the name of
that place?”
Luca looked thoughtful for a moment. “Oh, yeah. El
Tepeyac.”
“That’s it.” Turner snapped his fingers and smiled.
“Could never remember the name of it.”
Luca arched an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Yeah, just… my mind went blank, or something.”
“Why are you asking about it?”
“No reason. It was just on my mind.” He got to his feet.
“Why don’t I go look at those lyrics?”
Luca smiled and took his hand, gave his fingers a
squeeze. “I feel so domesticated,” he said. “I don’t know if I
can handle this slow and steady life.”
“Don’t worry,” Turner said. “Things are about to get
faster and more exciting than they’ve ever been. You’ll be
jumping off metaphorical bridges every day.”
“But no real bridges.”
“Right. And you don’t get to talk me into anything else
with a blow job.”
“Aw.”
“Be good. Go jump off the couch if you’re feeling
restless.”
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| 46
“Something tells me you’re right about the metaphorical
bridges,” Luca said as he drifted inside the house ahead of
Turner. “But this is one jump I can’t pack my parachute for.”
Turner didn’t know if he meant the band or their
relationship, but either way, he smiled.
About the Author
L
YDIA
N
YX
is from Cleveland, Ohio. She’s older than she
looks and not as wise as she seems. Her many incredible
talents include making things up, finding amazing clothes in
thrift stores, and giving her opinions on things no one asked
her about. Her favorite holiday is Halloween and her favorite
color is black, not because she’s dark and broody, but
because it doesn’t show the stains when she dumps things
on herself. She writes romance and erotica, as well as
paranormal, horror, and urban fantasy, and prefers all her
fiction with a male/male twist. She currently resides in a
little apartment with her teenage son and a crazy cat and
spends countless hours of the day entertaining the dirty
fantasies in her head. As a “day job” she works as a waitress,
which gives her lots of free time to slack off and plot stories.
Writing since the age of thirteen, she has always wanted to
be an author and hopefully one day writing will be her only
job.
Visit her web site at http://www.lydianyx.com, on Twitter at
http://twitter.com/lydianyx, or contact her at lydia@
lydianyx.com.
Copyright
Risky ©Copyright Lydia Nyx, 2011
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
4760 Preston Road
Suite 244-149
Frisco, TX 75034
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the
authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Art by Catt Ford
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is
illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon
conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No
part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To
request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite
244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
Released in the United States of America
June 2011
eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-036-3
