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thing he saw before sleep took him was Dylan with his head bent, eyes closed, lips slightly parted.
    Two fingers pressed to the circle tattooed on the inside of his wrist.

Chapter Eight
    At a little after four in the afternoon, he opened the messaging app on his phone and sent fourteen words to Dylan:
    Let me know if you still want to do that thing we talked about.

Chapter Nine
    The feeling of having sent that text, Brian discovered, was a lot like the feeling immediately after clicking a lock shut: thrill and panic twisting tightly together, inescapable. In the apartment’s silence, he both wished Dylan would call right back—and wouldn’t. After the initial nausea passed, he took a piss and retrieved his sandwich from the fridge.
    Back on the couch, he pulled up an old movie on Netflix, his MacBook sitting on one knee, and tried to keep his thoughts off what he’d just sort of agreed to. He could always change his mind anyway. Dylan wasn’t a prick. It wouldn’t be a major fight between them.
    His phone chirped, the screen lighting up. His heart thudded, but it was a photo the drummer they’d used on the last tour had texted him. He thought possibly Lane was shitfaced—that or there was something hilarious about the photo that he just wasn’t seeing. He turned the screen off.
    The sandwich wrapping sat crumpled on the coffee table next to what used to be a glass of ice water. He hadn’t tasted the tuna salad, and the water had only cured his dry throat while he was drinking it.
    It was nearly one in the morning when the phone rang. In the black-and-white glow of another old movie, he patted the couch cushions for his cell. Pressed the button. Lifted it to his face. Time seemed to teeter on an apex.
    “Hey,” he said into the phone.
    “Busy?” Dylan asked.
    “Nah, just watching an old movie.”
    “Which one?”
    “ Night of the Hunter . Robert Mitchum?” He dragged his fingers through his hair. Some part of him that had stepped back from the situation was impressed he could sit there making small talk with his heart hammering so hard.
    “Where he plays the preacher? That’s a good one.”
    “Yeah.” Brian closed the laptop and slid it onto the coffee table.
    Dylan said, “I just got your message. Sorry. I’m out of town—”
    “How is it that all the traveling we do on tour is never enough for you?”
    “I guess that’s the problem. I go out on tour, make new friends. Then they say, ‘Hey, we’re doing such and such this weekend. Wanna come?’”
    “What kind of such and such are you doing this weekend?”
    Brian could picture the shrug in response.
    “This and that. So.” The deep inhale of a cigarette pull filled the pause. “You want to try this thing sometime?”
    His face prickled. “Um. Yeah. I think. I mean, give it a try, at least. I guess. Maybe.” He closed his eyes and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. Shit.
    “All right. I’m up for it. We should go over some things, though.”
    Just what he didn’t want to do. Couldn’t they just do it and not have to talk about it? Squeezing his eyes more tightly shut, he said, “Okay.”
    “I need to know what’s off-limits.”
    “Yeah…uh.” Nothing came. Nada. Zip, zero, zilch. He forced out a short, hollow laugh. “You know, I never have to think about this when it’s just, um, me.” He covered his eyes with his hand. Shit.
    “Well, like, you don’t gag yourself.” The word gag said out loud made Brian wince, and the yourself right after it was even worse. “Is that still off-limits with someone else?”
    “No.” He croaked the word out. If his face got any hotter, the glass on his phone was going to start to melt. “I don’t think so.” And, Jesus, now his dick was getting hard.
    “All right, so what else?”
    What other rules did he have for himself? Which ones would he keep, even with someone else around? “Um. Don’t put anything around my throat, ever.” He wasn’t David Carradine when he