Swoon: A Brother's Best Friend Standalone

I listen as the song heads into its first chorus. “Are you singing backups here?”

“No, I don’t sing on our tracks. I leave that to Fish and Dax.”

“You sang along to this part at the wedding.”

“When we perform live, I’ll sing along to choruses, where we might need extra vocals to add volume. But I don’t sing during the recording process, when Dax and Fish can easily layer in multiple vocal tracks of themselves.”

“But don’t you want to sing, sometimes? You have such a beautiful voice.”

He looks surprised. “When have you heard me sing? Did I sing in the shower this morning?”

“You had a solo in a Christmas pageant one year. Remember that? You and Logan were shepherds.”

Colin looks flabbergasted. “How the hell do you remember that? I was eight or nine, so you had to be four or five.”

“Maybe I’ve seen a video of it? Either way, your voice was beautiful. So rich and expressive—so much better than any of the other kids. And let’s not forget I stood next to you at Logan’s birthday parties, several times, so I heard you singing ‘Happy Birthday,’ and sounding better than anyone.”

Colin chuckles and picks up his beer. “I enjoy singing. The sensation of it. I do it in the shower, quite a bit. But in front of an audience? No, thanks. I remember feeling like I had crippling anxiety for two weeks leading up to that Christmas pageant, and then felt like I was gonna barf the whole performance. Thanks to that experience, I harbor zero delusions about me taking the mic away from Dax or Fish, at our concerts. I’m perfectly happy banging away on my drums in the back and singing along to choruses.”

I know Colin is trying to infuse his story with self-deprecating humor, but his vulnerability is peeking through. He suffered “crippling anxiety” as a kid? That’s an awfully strong choice of words. An incredibly sexy choice of words, if you ask me.

I rise from my seat at the table and move to him, like he’s pulling me on a string. Every version of Colin is gorgeous to me. But Vulnerable Colin lights my fire like nobody else.

When I reach Colin in his chair, I straddle him, slide onto his lap, and kiss him deeply. Colin returns my kiss with passion, until we’re both gyrating and grinding into each other. Making out like horny teenagers.

To my surprise, as the song reaches its third chorus, Colin begins whisper-singing along with the track into my ear, and then doesn’t stop singing along during the quiet, intimate outro:

Oh, Fireflies

Oh, In your eyes

Oh, Fireflies

Oh, In your eyes

Fireflies

Fireflies

You got me feelin’ ‘em

With you

And nobody else

You’re a flower

A road

A destination

Would give my soul to the devil

My soul to the devil

To feel

Those

Fireflies

In my belly

Again

[Click here to listen to “Fireflies” by 22 Goats]

As the song ends, I rise from Colin’s lap and remove every stich of my clothing as he watches me with dark, hungry eyes and does the same. When our clothes are crumpled on the floor, I sink to my knees and take his straining, hard length into my mouth. I lick and suck and worship him, saying everything I can’t say in words, without defying the express boundaries of our arrangement: I’m all yours, to do with as you please. Even if that’s breaking my fucking heart.

I don’t want to care this deeply for a man who views me as a non-starter. But so it is. I love him. Always have and always will. He’s my kryptonite, and I can’t change that, though I wish I could. I’m going to get my heart broken in a few days, when it’s time for our “no-strings arrangement” to end. But as I kneel before Colin and worship his cock with my mouth, I decide to exist only in the present and enjoy this romantic, white-hot ride, even though I know Colin will almost certainly break my heart in the end.

Twenty-Two

Colin

I think it’s possible I’m not quite as terrible an actor as I thought I’d be. Or, hell, maybe I am, and I got lucky yesterday. I’ve certainly played poker with my best friends lots of times in real life, so filming a fake poker party didn’t feel like much of a stretch. When we shoot today’s scene, on the other hand—the one my acting coach calls my “tantrum” scene—I’m sure I’ll find out acting isn’t quite as easy-peasy as it seemed yesterday.

Thank God, Amy is here with me. Not only because her calming energy and sweet smile have a way of putting me at ease, but because she’s unexpectedly found a way to make herself incredibly useful. Not only to me, but to several other actors and higher-ups at the production company, too, including the woman in charge of production assistants. Clever girl.

At present, I’m sitting with Amy in the mess tent. As we’ve been eating lunch at our small table, she’s been running lines with me for this afternoon’s big tantrum scene—the one where my character, Private Sherman, has a testosterone-infused freak-out after searching frantically for, and failing to find, his lucky penny.