Jameson // Metallica

RUMORS

Five minutes of small talk bullshit was enough to get his thumping heartbeat back to normal. James pressed the phone closer to his ear and decided to drop the question. "So what's going on with you and Dave?"

"If you mean Letterman, he hasn't invited me to his show yet."

"You fucking know what I mean."

A stifled laugh spilled out of the phone, followed by rustling, a noise of something knocking against the phone on the other end, then more laughter.

"Jason?"

Jason's "I'm trying to talk here. Gimme that." came as if from far away, then back to James, he said, "Sorry. Go ahead."

"Is this not a good time?" Of course a quarter after midnight wasn't a good time, but after three and a half days of trying to find the balls to make the call, he'd finally decided he was ready. "Are you busy?"

"Nope. Not busy with anything at all." Jason's laughter was accompanied by another one, muffled by the sheets—James imagined—and by a dozen miles of telephone cables.

A wave of heat rose from his chest. It couldn't be. Of course not. But he couldn't stop it when, to go with the other laughter, his mind supplied the image of strawberry blond hair scattered over a pillow.

Of course it fucking couldn't be.

"Are you working with him, or what?" he asked, digging his thumb into his thigh to distract himself from the nausea settling in his stomach.

"Whatever gave you this idea?"

"I heard rumors."

"Rumors."

"Yeah."

"What kind of rumors?"

"Jesus, Jason. Can't you just say a simple yes, or no?" Or, fuck off, James. This would also be a possible answer, considering Jason owed him zero explanations about his life.

"What does it matter to you what I do or don't do with Dave?"

"It doesn't." It came out a little too quickly for his own taste.

"Uh-huh."

Other than the feeling of his stomach ripping through the rest of his guts on its way to fall out, the idea of Jason and Dave together—and it was them only working together—didn't upset him at all. Like all those years ago, when Jason had told him he'd spent the night with Dave, the feeling of betrayal crept up on him. The feeling that there were things happening that were not supposed to happen, or that they were happening to the wrong people, with the wrong people . . . .

Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. It didn't make sense. At all.

Jason, his voice smudged with amusement, said, "Then remind me, why we are having this conversation? I mean, other than you dying to find out about my general well-being?"

In his mind, he saw again Dave's hair scattered over a pillow, over a naked chest, spilling over his own naked shoulder. Like their owner, it'd smelled of stale beer, sweat, and the need for sex.

The sound of Jason's breath, suddenly too loud in his ear, reminded him that he was supposed to answer a question. His imagination answered instead, with a picture of Dave the way he'd looked that night twenty years ago in his bed, except now he lay sprawled across Jason's bed.

How stupid was that?

It didn't matter how stupid. Once the idea sank into his head, his imagination clung to it and started humping it in earnest.

"Are you sleeping with him?" Too late to tell his imagination to go fuck itself off.

Jason laughed; the sound seemed to rumble out from the bottom of his throat. "How do you come up with this shit?"

"You did it once before." Once that he knew of, the helpful voice inside his head corrected him.

"Yeah, and look where it got me."

His mind dished out another memory—not an image this time, but a sensation behind the blackness of his closed eyelids—of hands, Jason's hands, slipping into his jeans, slipping behind the waistband of his boxers, of lips against his mouth, of his own excitement. And panic.

He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the memories. "You're right, this is not a good idea. I should go now. Sorry I interrupted your . . ." Fucking. Dirty, sweaty, gratifying fuck with Dave. ". . . whatever."

"No problem, man. We'll get right back to it, won't we?"

He ignored the last sentence, clearly directed not to him, but to whoever kept Jason company tonight. The more rational part of him was willing to bet that first of all, it was a woman, not a guy. And especially not Dave. Dave. What a fucking ridiculous idea.

Or not so ridiculous. Just think about it.

He did not want to think about it. He told the less rational part of himself to shut up, then to Jason: "Right. Good night then."

"Good night."

With a click of a button he hung up. For a few minutes he sat on the edge of the bed still clutching the phone, not willing to let go of it as if it was going to provide him with answers. Then he lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Thinking. Remembering. Feeling betrayed again.

Why? Of course it wasn't Dave.

But he couldn't stop wondering if maybe, just maybe, it was. Or why did it even matter.