And watching Soren squirm was definitely fun.
Only, it seemed he was done with squirming. He left his post at the cocktail table with the rest of the guys and charged toward me. I thought he’d interrupt my dance with Mr. Handsy and maybe try to take his place. But that was not what happened.
His beefy hand wrapped around my upper arm, and then he pushed me off the dance floor.
I was going to make a caveman joke, but it was so loud in the club I could barely hear my own thoughts let alone my voice.
Soren dragged me into the corridor leading to the bathrooms.
Presumptuous much?
Surprising me yet again, he kept dragging me past the bathrooms and toward the emergency exit.
“Are you kidnapping me?” I yelled over the loud noise of the club.
He stared down at me, and his lips twitched, but he didn’t answer.
When he pushed me out into the alley behind the bar, I didn’t know if I was supposed to be scared. Anyone else, I probably would’ve been, but my flight instinct was nowhere around. My gut said the others wouldn’t have invited Soren if he was dangerous, but there’d already been too many assholes in my life, so I was still wary.
“Want to explain to me what you were doing in there?” Soren’s voice was gruff, and it immediately went to my cock.
I hadn’t had such a visceral reaction to a guy’s voice before, but I pushed that from my mind as I tried to work out what he meant.
“Dancing?” I asked. “Having fun?”
Soren ran a hand through his hair. “The song was complete bullshit then?” He took a deep breath. “I don’t think I can handle that.”
“What song?” What the fuck is he talking about?
“The song you sang at the Rainbow Beds benefit. The original.”
Rainbow Beds was my brother-in-law’s project, and my band played the benefit to raise money to help launch the charity. But that was months ago.
I stumbled back until I bumped into the wall behind me. “My song? You … you know my song?”
“He’s Mine” was everything to me. Benji, my bass player, was convinced it would be our first hit. He was almost right. It was the song that got us signed with a record label, but it wouldn’t be our first single. The label said releasing a love song first would limit our stylistic choices in the future.
“I came out because of that song,” Soren said. “And if you … if it’s not real, I’m going to lose my ever-loving mind. So, please, tell me that song was about your boyfriend and you’re as happy as ever and that love conquers all and all that other bullshit because with the way you’re throwing yourself at every single—and taken—guy in there, I’m starting to think it meant nothing. Isn’t Lennon your friend? And you’re in there all over Ollie—”
I ignored what was supposed to be an offensive comment because I couldn’t get past the first thing he’d said. “You came out. Because of my song. Like, my song …”
“Yes. Your song, your song, your song. If it’s not real …” Soren didn’t look upset; he looked distraught. “It’s gonna be like finding out Bobby Orr was on steroids.”
“Who?”
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. I always hoped my words could get through to people, to touch them and make them feel comforted or brave or whatever they needed to feel. I just thought I’d be famous before that happened.
“You were at the Rainbow Beds benefit …”
Soren continued to stare at me, disappointment clouding his face with every second I didn’t clarify about the damn song.
“That song,” I said slowly, “was about my brother and his husband. The song is real. It’s just not my story.”
I saw the moment it clicked for him.
Hope bloomed in his light eyes. “For real?”
“One hundred percent.”
Soren bent at the waist, his hands going to his knees. “Oh, thank fuck.”
I couldn’t help but find his reaction amusing, but more importantly, I couldn’t believe he was that deeply invested in my music.
Me. A poor kid from nowhere Tennessee. No college degree. Hell, barely even a high school diploma. I inspired someone to step outside their comfort zone.
I had to do something to remember this moment. “Seeing as you’re technically my first-ever fanboy … wait, you can’t be called any type of boy … fanman?”
Soren let out a deep laugh.
“Can I please buy you a drink?”
In a few years’ time—hopefully—I wouldn’t let fame go to my head because I’d remember the six-foot-one mountain of a hockey player having an identity crisis because of one of my songs. I’d remember the bravery it took for Soren to sit in front of a room full of journalists and announce to the world he was gay. He did that because of me. Jethro Jackson. The biggest white trash to ever trash.