Doyle glanced at Mevi. He didn’t have enough info yet to process how to deal with him. A raised finger? A touch of the hand on the shoulder?
A stern look and arched eyebrow?
Somehow, he suspected a kind and gentle approach would be totally ineffective at the start, and would let Mevi think he could steamroll him.
Figuring out their dynamic’s workings would be one of Doyle’s first tasks over the next twenty-four hours. That was crucial to him establishing the hierarchy with the client. Feeling them out and figuring out what role he needed to be—outside of their sober companion—to get them to be the most responsive in positive ways. It also depended on the contract. Sometimes he was as much a babysitter as he was a companion. Sometimes, all he could do was sit back and try to provide a voice of reason and conscience to his client.
Fortunately, he’d yet to have a client relapse while under his care like this, although there’d been a few close calls.
And sometimes his dynamic with his client fluctuated, evolved, depending on how long he spent with them and how well they handled their sobriety. Sixty days out, Mevi might not be white-knuckling it too badly right now, despite his apparently irritated condition.
Following final handshakes, Doyle rounded the SUV to get in after fishing his car charger and sound patch cable out of his laptop bag. After driving Clark home, Landry would take Doyle’s car back to their condo.
Doyle settled into the driver’s seat and started to adjust it, the steering wheel, and mirrors, and then went about plugging his phone into the center console and setting it up for the sound system.
All the while, he didn’t so much as acknowledge Mevi, whom he sensed first watching, then staring at him.
Apparently, Mevi was a man not used to being ignored.
Then I’ll keep doing that until I find his breakthrough point. Or his breaking point. Either one.
* * * *
Mevi couldn’t help but watch the guy. He wasn’t used to people not at the very least deferring to him. Not that he expected them to, but after nearly twenty years in the industry, when someone didn’t do it, it always stood out.
Not necessarily in a bad way. It wasn’t like Doyle was being rude.
Even at the rehab center, people he met there, including staff, made pleasant comments about his music.
Maybe he doesn’t know who I am?
Clark and the other guy had already left, and yet there they still sat, the guy doing something on his damn phone. Finally, after about five minutes of that, Mevi had enough.
“What are you doing? Are we just gonna sit here all night?”
The guy didn’t even look up. He held up one finger and kept going through his phone. Finally, after another couple of minutes, he lowered his finger but didn’t look up from the phone.
“Rule one—driver controls the music. I might ask you your opinion, but I get the final say.”
Mevi wasn’t sure he’d heard him right. “What?”
The guy’s head didn’t move, but his gaze swiveled toward Mevi. “Did you not hear me, or not understand me?”
“What kind of asshole are you?”
Now Doyle shifted his head up, his dark brown gaze boring deep into Mevi. Instead of getting riled up, the guy actually seemed to downshift into a smoother, calmer, stronger gear.
“Rule number two—no insults. We’re adults. Act like one.”
Even the guy’s tone…it didn’t come off snippy. He couldn’t describe it.
Doyle’s focus returned to his phone. “You’re good-looking, but you’re a client, so that’s a hard no, sorry. I don’t sleep with clients. Rule three—you do what I say, when I say it. You need me a lot more than I need you. I’m not an asshole unless you treat me like one, and the first few days between us will be rocky enough anyway, I’m sure. But my job is to get you to Chicago, and help you stay sober, and that’s what’s going to happen if you want to pull your assets out of the fire.”
Doyle’s answer to Mevi’s off-the-cuff insult had caught him off-guard. This guy was an experienced addiction counselor and sober companion? This guy acted nothing like any of the counselors he’d had in rehab.
“You’re not dragging my ass to any twelve-step meetings.”
“As long as you do what I say, that won’t be necessary.”
He’d honestly expected a different answer than that despite what Clark had assured him. “Um…okay. Good.”
Doyle met his gaze again. “You’re probably not going to like this, but we’re dyeing your hair ASAP. Can’t hide that.”
Mevi dodged the statement. It’d been a couple of months since he’d been to a stylist, and his roots were long and obvious. “Where are we going?”
“I don’t know if there’s another one, but yes, Florida.”
“And we’re driving? Seriously?”
“I’m driving. Seriously.”
“Why aren’t we flying?”
Doyle smiled. “Because either you’re going to like or hate me at the end of this road trip. I don’t care which one, to be honest, but you can’t escape me. Driving will keep the paparazzi off our tails. And I happen to be a sadist.”
He hit a button on the phone before tucking it away in the center console and closing the cover.
The opening bars of the overture “Work Song” from Les Mis streamed through the speakers.
Incredulous, Mevi stared at the guy. “Seriously?” Although Mevi would give the guy points for being ballsy.
Doyle grinned as he buckled his seat belt. “I warned you, I am a sadist. Besides, I love this show. And I’m a fan of irony.”
* * * *
But mostly, Doyle was a sadist, even if the guy wouldn’t know he meant it literally, not metaphorically.
He was glad Mevi had immediately recognized the music. That meant they’d be listening to a lot of show tune albums over the next couple of days. Stuff they could either talk over, bond over, or ignore each other over. He had a lot more on his iPod, but hadn’t felt like digging that out of his suitcase tonight.
Working in his office or alone at home, he was usually doing something else he needed to focus on and couldn’t actually listen to the lyrics. In a car, driving, he loved music that told a story.
Hence show tunes.
As Doyle headed east, Mevi stared out the passenger window. “Where are we stopping?”
“That’s a shit-hole.”
“You’re not staying at the Ritz now,” Doyle told him. “We’re laying low. Hopefully there’s some place open between here and there I can get you some hair dye tonight. What color are you naturally?”
He didn’t answer at first.
Doyle waited him out even as Jean Valjean and Javert verbally duked it out through the speakers.
“Brown,” Mevi muttered, pulling the hood of his jacket back and taking off his hat.
In the dim light from the instrument cluster and passing street lamps outside, Doyle saw the guy’s roots providing a dramatic contrast to the rest of his hair.
Personally, Doyle thought the silver color made the guy look years older and it wasn’t even slightly flattering, but it was a style he’d had for years, his trademark. “Might have to go darker than that to get the color out. Would probably be easier if we cut your hair first.” Mevi’s hair was usually somewhat longer than it currently was anyway. At least, it always was in the promo shots and videos he’d seen of the guy. Short, dark hair would make the guy nearly unrecognizable.
“Fine. Whatever.” Mevi turned to the window again.
Doyle mentally revised his plan. He’d get a hotel room for them first, then go out. If he couldn’t find any place open, he’d go out in the morning and they’d do it before they got on the road again. He wanted a good look at the guy in decent lighting before dyeing his hair.
This was something he’d had to do a couple of times with other clients to help disguise them when they’d needed to stay hidden for a few weeks instead of being on a shoot. With an actor, it didn’t matter as long as a wig was being used for shooting. Sometimes, with female clients, he did get them a wig to wear until they were someplace he didn’t have to worry about them being recognized.
Photogs were too good at spotting celebs with sunglasses, hats, and hoodies.
You had to physically change someone’s appearance. Hair was the easiest way to do that.
They rode without talking as Doyle started singing along with the soundtrack. He’d seen the musical a couple of times in traveling productions, never on Broadway. And he had the movie on DVD.
* * * *
If anyone else had told this story to Mevi, he’d be laughing his ass off about now, and he damn well knew it.
But…this was his life.
Doyle didn’t have the best voice in the world, but he’d probably be a top contender at any average karaoke night. And bonus points for knowing all the words and apparently giving zero fucks what Mevi thought of his singing chops.
Grudgingly, Mevi found himself tapping his hand against his thigh in time with the music and even softly singing along with some of the songs. As the Pacific coast drew farther away behind them, he wondered exactly where this road trip would lead.
Or where his recovery path would lead.
He knew he was fucked if he didn’t pull it together. That pissed him off most of all, that somewhere along the way, he’d left his resolve, his will, in the dust.
Like he didn’t even give a shit.
That wasn’t him.
That was nothing like him.
But who was he, really?
He damn sure wasn’t the guy his fans thought he was. Would they even like him if they knew the real him after all the years he spent putting on a fake image for them? Would they still listen to his music?
Would the others in the band be punished professionally for him misleading his fans?
He’d feel horrible if that happened, and was yet another reason for his silence. Collateral damage wasn’t something he wanted on his conscience.
He settled in for the ride, since right now, that was all he could do.
Doyle turned to Mevi.
He looked hopeful.
Doyle pulled him in for a kiss. “Are you sure you want this? Me?”
Doyle ran a hand through Mevi’s hair. “No more of that stupid silver dye.”
Mevi smiled. “Yes, Sir.”
“And I don’t like long hair. No longer than this. Okay?”
Doyle sighed. “And you can always say no, or ask for a modification, or safeword.”
Mevi pressed close. “What if I don’t want to say no? What if I want Sir to decide those things?”
Doyle smiled. “Be careful what you wish for.”
* * * *
Doyle took Mevi’s hand and led him back upstairs as Mevi’s heart raced, eager to finally be with this man. The Walgreens bag had ended up on Doyle’s bed, and after sitting Mevi on the end of his bed—fully clothed—he showed Mevi what was in the bag.
Several boxes of condoms and a large bottle of lube.
He got the bottle of lube out of the box and removed the inner seal, getting it ready. Then he stood between Mevi’s legs, leaning in and kissing him, one hand on the back of Mevi’s head and the other grabbing Mevi’s hand and placing it on the front of Doyle’s slacks where his erection pressed against the zipper.
Mevi moaned at the feel of it.
“That’s going in your ass, boy,” Doyle rumbled. “And in your mouth. Although,” he quickly added, “not in that order. That’s just gross. No ass-to-mouth.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
“You ever have anything in your ass before?”
Heat filled his face. “My fingers. In the shower. A couple of times, not a lot.”
“No one’s ever fucked you?”
He shook his head. “No, Sir,” he whispered.
“Good.” He stepped back and dug something out of his toybag.
A butt plug.
Doyle smiled as he held it up. “It’s a fairly small one, don’t worry. Ironically, yours is the first male ass it’ll have ever been inside. That’s sort of fitting, huh?”
Mevi smiled. “Yes, Sir.”
He’d also dug a small coil of rope out of his bag. “Something hurts in a bad way, you safeword immediately. Understand?”
Doyle shoved him back onto the bed and straddled him, pinning his hands over his head.
Mevi nearly came from how his own cock ground against Doyle through their slacks.
“Don’t you dare come yet, boy,” Doyle ordered. “Stay.”
Mevi kept his hands where Doyle put them while Doyle reached down and started unbuttoning Mevi’s shirt. Once he had it open, he tugged it out of his slacks and pulled it off over his head, dropping it to the floor. Then he proceeded to tie Mevi’s wrists together.
Doyle stood, smiling down at him. “Now then.” He pulled off Mevi’s shoes and socks before he started working on his belt and fly. Once Mevi lay naked before him, Doyle seemed to be feasting on him with his eyes. “When we’re alone, boy, you’re naked. Period. You ask permission to put on clothes. Understand?”
“It’s because I love looking at you, but also because I might want to bend you over and plow that gorgeous ass whenever I want.”
Mevi’s cock twitched, pre-cum pearling at the slit.
Doyle noticed. He smiled as he reached down and swiped his finger along the head, lifting it to his lips to taste.
“Mmm.” Doyle milked another drop from him, this time feeding it to him. “I have a very sweet boy,” he hoarsely said. “And yes, your cock will be getting sucked, too.”
Mevi bit down on his lower lip to keep from moaning.
“Oh, when it doesn’t matter, you better believe I want to hear your noises. Don’t you ever try to hide them when we don’t need to.” He leaned in and licked the head of Mevi’s cock.
Now he whined, desperate to hold back, not explode. “That’s the kind of noises I like.” He continued teasing Mevi, swirling his tongue around the head, flicking at the slit, licking up and down the sides of Mevi’s shaft. Then he shoved his thighs apart and tucked a towel under him.
“First, though, my boy needs his virgin ass stretched so he can take my cock. Because before we go to bed tonight, you will have had my cock in there. I’m going to claim what’s mine.”
Another word, said in that way, that threatened to make Mevi’s balls explode.
It’s all he wanted to be—belonging to him.
Doyle, still dressed, rolled a condom onto the butt plug, slathered it with lube, then added lube to his fingers and started probing Mevi’s virgin rim.
“Look at me,” Doyle ordered in that tone, the one that Mevi had fallen in love with.
His Dominant tone.
“Beg me for it.”
“Please, Sir, please fuck my ass!”
“My ass, boy. That’s my ass, my cock, my mouth. Not yours. I own you, so I own them, too.”
“Yes, Sir! Please fuck your ass!”
Doyle chuckled and leaned in to kiss him. “Okay, that does sound a little silly. I think the proper subbie syntax should be, ‘Please fuck your boy’s ass.’”
“Please fuck your boy’s ass, Sir!”
“Mmm.” One finger slipped through Mevi’s rim, drawing a long, low moan from him as Doyle slowly fucked him with it. “You beg sooo nice, boy. Be prepared to do a lot of begging in the future.” He continued to fuck him with his finger.
When he added a little more lube and started working a second finger in, that’s when Mevi whined, the pinching burn momentarily taking the edge off his need. Doyle slowly fucked him with two fingers, leaning in and occasionally sucking on Mevi’s cock as he did. As he scissored his fingers in Mevi’s ass, he swirled his tongue around the head of his cock.
No wonder sex had never been a big deal to him. It’d never been this good. Sex with Bonnie had mostly been a way to sleep in bed with her and not be alone. An excuse to cuddle all night just to have human contact. He couldn’t even count how many times he’d faked it with her, since they always used a condom for intercourse. A quick withdrawal and trip to the bathroom to dispose of it and she was none the wiser.
Sometimes she’d been able to get him over sucking him off, but only if he fantasized about guys while she did.
Both Doyle’s mouth and fingers disappeared. Mevi lifted his head to look. Doyle took the butt plug and pressed the tip of it against his rim, gently pushing. As he slowly started fucking it into Mevi’s ass, Doyle arched an eyebrow at him. “Push against it, just a little.”
He did, gasping when it suddenly slid into place. It wasn’t a bad feeling, it was just…different.
He couldn’t wait until it was Doyle’s cock.
“Good boy.” Doyle stood and walked into the bathroom. Mevi heard water running, and he returned a moment later. Then he started unbuttoning his shirt. “We’re going to start the evening with you over my lap and getting a spanking, because I want to make that sweet ass of yours nice and red before I fuck you.”