Frank weaves his way through the back hallways of the venue, staring at his phone. He stumbles over the foot of a mic stand and just barely manages to keep himself from falling on his face. He stops for a second to glare at the stand and then looks back at the phone. There has to be some corner of this fucking building where he can get a signal, dammit.
"Hey, Frankie. We're on in forty-five. Everything okay?" Ray's voice echoes off the cinderblock walls, and Frank turns to answer, dragging his eyes away from the screen.
"Yeah, I'm good. Just trying to get ahold of J. I promised I'd call, and it'll be too late after the show." He frowns at the phone. "Fucking iPhone. You get a signal anywhere?"
"Haven't tried since we got here. Sorry dude. Good luck, though," Ray says, turning back toward the dressing room door. "See you out there."
"Yep." Frank is already heading the other way. The hallways split off up ahead and Frank goes left, moving toward what he thinks is the outer wall of the building. He keeps walking and then, fucking finally, a few bars pop up in the corner of the screen.
He's staring so hard at the signal indicator that he doesn't notice he's walked into a dimly lit corner of a long hallway until the phone screen automatically brightens to compensate. Dusty stacks of backdrops and empty packing crates line the hallway walls and he avoids them as best he can, one eye still on the phone. He takes a second to appreciate that it would be an excellent setting for a horror movie, but he can't decide if he'd want it to be zombies or vampires. Or maybe zombie vampires. Mikey would know—he always calls that shit exactly right.
Frank keeps moving toward the square of twilight he can see at the end of the hall. It's an emergency exit door, and he peers through the reinforced glass window at the back lot and the tour buses parked in neat rows. The phone finally shows a full signal and he raises his arms in victory, feeling a little stupid because nobody is there to see him. He looks at his watch: forty minutes left before they're onstage. His stomach gives a little nervous twist at the thought, and he makes the call.
"Kiss them for me, ok? Tell them Daddy's gonna fucking kill it tonight, and I'll be home soon," he murmurs.
Her voice is low, so he presses the phone closer to his ear. "I tell them every night. You know I do. Hold on a sec." She pauses, and he's quiet, just listening to her breathing. He hears a soft rustling and then the louder sound of her picking up the phone again. "I miss you. Can't fucking wait 'til next week."
"Six days," he says, keeping his voice low to match hers. "Miss you. So fucking much."
"Mmmm." He hears the soft click of the door closing.
"Totally out. And I'm about to sack out on the couch with the monitor and bad TV."
A little pang of guilt spikes in his chest at how tired she sounds. "Hard day?"
She sighs, but it's her 'fuck yeah, relaxing' sigh, so he smiles to himself. "Nah. Just the usual chaos. 'S'all good—oof." She giggles, and he hears telltale snuffling through the phone.
He grins and says, "How many of 'em jumped you the second you got on the couch?"
She laughs quietly. "Just two. Everyone else is still eating."
"I miss them too. Give them doggy kisses from me, okay?" He leans against the wall, watching the sun set over the line of buses.
"Done and done. Hey, aren't you guys on soon? Why's it so quiet there?"
He checks his watch again. "Shit. Twenty-five minutes. I should probably head back. I had to walk around for like three hours before I found a place with a fucking signal."
"Okay baby." She yawns, and he's hit by one of those sudden, agonizing moments of missing her, and he'd give anything to be there, tangled in dogs and blankets on their couch, the baby monitor a constant comforting white noise on the coffee table.
He tips his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. "Fuck." His whisper is low and intense. "I wish I was there. We'd watch Top Chef and then I'd kick the dogs out and go down on you, right there on the couch. Take my time with it. Make you come three times before we fuck."
She sucks in a sharp breath and then lets it out in the softest little moan. She sounds almost strung out when she finally answers, "Fuck, Frank. Yeah. I want you to." She pauses and then huffs out a little laugh. "Except, fuck TV. I want you on me first. Then TV. And cookies."
He groans softly, smiling. "Haven't you guys invented transporter technology yet? Seriously, what do the dogs do all day? I thought you had them working on that shit 24/7."
"They're fucking slackers, I'm telling you. We need to replace them all with robot wolves or something." She laughs and says, "Lucky for them they're so fucking cute."
He sighs and looks at his watch again. "I've gotta go. Listen, call me later if you're still up, yeah?"
Her voice goes high and tight for a second and then relaxes, and he can picture her stretching, arms above her head, her face scrunched up as she says, "Oh, you mean so you can finish telling me how you're going to make me come three times before you fuck me? In detail? While you touch yourself?"
He giggles automatically even as his dick twitches a little. "Uh, yeah. Exactly. I can probably get time for a 'shower' before we head back to the bus."
"I can see your air quotes from here." He can hear the grin in her voice. "And fuck yeah. It's a date. Have a good show, 'kay?"
"We will. Love you."
She says, "love you back," and then it's quiet. He keeps the phone pressed to his ear until he hears the beeps that mean they've been disconnected. He sighs a little, thinks about her lying on the couch, her body warm and soft, and absent-mindedly palms his dick through his jeans. He almost wishes that he had time to jerk off before the show, even though he'll be talking to her again in an hour and a half.
"Later," he mutters, resolutely taking his hand off of his dick. He looks at his phone and realizes that he's got a text and five new voicemails. He checks, and they're all from Dewees. The text simply says RETALIATION. He listens to the voicemails, laughing quietly to himself. Each is crazier than the last, Dewees putting on atrociously bad accents and telling him about various personal items of his that he'll never see again unless he "makes it right." Frank smirks and puts the phone back in his pocket, heading back toward the dressing room while thinking about how best to get back at him.
He's about to step around a huge stack of crates when he hears low whispers and muffled laughter just ahead. He stops short and holds his breath as he peers through the holes in the crates and sees Gerard and Lindsey leaning up against the wall on the other side.
They're kissing, hard and breathless, little moans escaping their lips as Gerard tangles his fingers in her hair and kisses down her jaw. Her shirt is halfway open, and his hand is on her breast, thumbing over her nipple. Frank looks away and takes several quiet steps back. Shit. Shit. When had she even arrived? She'd still been on her way from the airport when he left the dressing room earlier. He looks around a little desperately, but the only ways out are past Gee and Lindsey or out the emergency exit, which would sound an alarm.
Fuck. He sinks quietly down to sit on the floor, looking at his watch again. He needs to get to the stage, but he'll have to wait it out. It's not like they're going to go on without their lead singer, anyway. He'll just... not pay attention to them. Sure. Totally.
"Fuck," Gerard moans, "Fuck yeah. Please." It's as though he's specifically taunting Frank. Because, whatever. Frank is human, and Gee and Lindsey are hot, and he's curious. He steals a quick look and he sees that Lindsey is undoing more buttons of her shirt with one hand. Her other hand is... oh. It's in Gerard's pants. His head is thrown back against the wall and Lindsey is licking his neck, kissing up under his ear. He moans again and Frank quickly looks away.
Frank is breathing faster now, and his dick is definitely paying attention. He wills it to shut the fuck up and leave him alone. This is his best friend and his wife. Frank should not be watching this. They think they're alone. He forces himself to stare resolutely at the tile floor. It's gray and speckled with darker flecks of gray. Probably so it doesn't show dirt. Gross. He thinks about Jamia—what she'd say if she saw him crouched on the dirty floor, hiding from two of his best friends. He grins a little. He knows exactly what she'll say. She's going to call him a fucking pussy and make fun of him for the next ten years.
He hears Lindsey gasp, looks up before he can stop himself, and sees—oh fuck—Gerard's mouth is on her breast. Her shirt is hanging open and her fingers are tangled in his hair, holding him there. Gerard's other hand is slipping down under her skirt and then he stops for a second, looks up at her. "Oh fuck, Linds," he breathes. "No panties."
She gasps out a low laugh. "Took 'em off in the cab. Knew we wouldn't have much time."
Gerard moans, pulling down the cup of her bra further and sucking her nipple back into his mouth. His hand is working under her skirt now, her legs spread wide, hips moving as he fucks her with his fingers. At least, that's what Frank imagines is going on under her skirt. He tries not to stare at Gerard's mouth on her breast, at the way her head falls back, the long line of her pale throat, the dark red of her open lips.
Frank's cheeks feel hot and his breath is coming faster even as he tries to stay utterly silent. He forces himself to at least focus on something innocuous, if he's going to stare. But even watching Gerard's arm feels dirty, as his muscles flex with the motion of his hands on her. In her, Frank thinks, and closes his eyes.
They fly open again when Gerard gasps out, "Fuck. You feel so fucking good. I need—want—" he falters, looking up at her, his mouth open, her lipstick smeared all over his lips. As Frank watches, fucking transfixed, she pulls Gerard up, kisses him again, deep and dirty, and then slides her hand to his shoulder and pushes him down. He's gazing up at her as he goes and slowly runs his tongue over his lips.
Frank lets out an involuntary gasp and then claps his hand over his mouth. His heart stutters as he stares at them, but they don't seem to have noticed a thing. They're so completely caught up in each other, and Frank has to look away again. He's—he's fucking jealous. He knows how that feels. He remembers the last time Jamia was visiting, the way she dragged him into the dressing room bathroom and shoved him against the wall hard. Her hands were all over him, grabbing his ass, pulling him in by the back of the neck to kiss her deep, her moans loud enough to be heard outside and neither of them caring at all.
He lets his head fall back against the wall, keeps thinking about Jamia until he realizes that it's been quiet for a minute and looks up again. Lindsey has her back against the wall and Gerard's on his knees in front of her, scooting closer, pushing up her skirt with the hand that isn't already occupied. His pants are still open and hanging below his ass, and Frank can see his hard dick outlined against his briefs. Gerard runs his hand up Lindsey's thigh, kissing up the inside as she breathes harshly above him, her head back and her eyes closed. He slides his hand around and swings her leg onto his shoulder, and then he's under her skirt, his face between her legs, and she's moaning and thrusting herself against him. Frank flicks his eyes up to where her hands are on her tits, pinching her nipples, and her lower lip is caught between her teeth.
Lindsey's breathing speeds up, and Frank watches her slide a hand through Gerard's bright hair, twisting it tight around her fingers, tugging him in closer. "Fuck, Gerard. Oh fuck. Yeah. There." She's quiet, much quieter than Frank would've thought she'd be. But maybe it's because they're in fucking public. In a hallway.
Frank realizes that he's palming his own cock through his jeans—probably has been for a while, because he's fully hard now. He can't do it, though. He can't jerk off while watching his friends fuck. It's just too weird. He wants to, though. Fuck, but he wants to. He stops touching himself with some effort and glances up at them again.
"Unh. Don't. Fucking. Stop." Lindsey's voice is low but urgent. She pulls her skirt up further, looking down at Gerard's mouth working her clit while his fingers move inside her, his eyes closed. Her mouth is hanging open and her chest is moving with her heavy breaths. Frank swallows, checks his watch quickly. Fuck—fifteen minutes 'til they have to be on stage. Gerard had better hurry the fuck up or they're going to get fucking caught.
Just as that thought crosses his mind, Lindsey's voice catches and she gasps, holding him against her while she rocks up against his tongue and grinds down onto his fingers, shuddering above him. It's fucking beautiful and Frank fucking knows that he shouldn't be seeing this. He closes his eyes again, but he can still hear everything. Her breathing slows and there's a rustling noise. Frank looks up in time to see her sliding down the wall a little and then dragging Gerard up to his feet, kissing him and—holy fuck—licking the wetness off his face. She laughs, low, then says, "I came all over you, baby. Sorry."
Gerard's breathing hard. "You did." He has this blissful look on his face, like there's nowhere else in the world he'd rather be. "It was fucking awesome. Wanna do it again?"
Frank freezes. Fuck. Gerard has no fucking clue what time it is. They are going to be late. Because why the fuck would she—would anyone—turn down an offer like that from Gerard?
Lindsey knows what's up, though. "Rain check. You're due onstage in—" she checks her watch, "Fuck! Ten minutes. Oh shit. You've gotta go." She looks down at what Frank knows is Gerard's hard-on. She slides her hand down his body and Gerard moans and grinds up against her. "Do we have time to take care of this?"
Gerard's eyes are closed and he's leaning against her, breathing hard. "No. If I come now I'm gonna be all slow onstage. I need to keep my edge."
Frank rolls his eyes, grinning. Only Gerard, seriously.
Lindsey smiles, then leans in and kisses Gerard softly. She reaches up and starts cleaning her lipstick from his face. "I'll blow you later," she says lightly.
Gerard reaches down and carefully starts to zip up his pants. "Fuck, Linds. Yeah, yes. Okay."
Frank stands up quietly and brushes himself off, stepping back further around the corner. He'll just wait a few minutes after they leave and then head back and nobody will—
His phone rings, the tone unbelievably loud in the hallway, even from inside his pocket. He gasps and scrambles for it, knowing that it's way, way too late. He answers, and it's Ray, wondering where the fuck they are.
"Yeah, sorry, I'm on my way." Frank forces himself to look up, and Gerard and Lindsey are staring at him, identical shocked expressions on their faces. She's mostly finished buttoning up her shirt, and Gerard's pants are zipped and buckled. "Yeah, he's... he's here too. Be there in a few minutes." He hangs up.
"Frank, what the fuck?" Gerard says. His eyebrows are drawn together and there's a hardness in his eyes. Frank can't even remember the last time Gerard looked at him like that. His heart is pounding, and hey – the one good thing about soul-crushing humiliation is that it's a fuck of a boner-killer. At least he doesn't have to face them with a raging hard-on.
His voice is small and sheepish as he says, "I'm so fucking sorry, you guys. I came back here to call Jamia, and you didn't know, and I didn't—I had no—you were already—fuck." He looks up at them, willing them both to get that he's not actually the world's creepiest person.
Gerard's face softens and he grabs Lindsey's hand. "You were, like, trapped back there while we—" he laughs a little.
"Shit, Frankie. We're the ones who are sorry. Nobody needs to see that shit." Lindsey smiles at him and then looks down.
"Dude, no. Don't apologize. I should've said... something. I just kind of panicked." He's so fucking relieved that they're not mad at him that he almost can't breathe for a second.
"We'd better go, Frankie. I haven't even looked at the set list yet." Gerard smiles and looks at his feet. "When Linds got here, I kind of just—"
"I know." Frank looks up at him and smiles back. "I get it, dude. Believe me." He looks at them both. "We good?" He thinks for a second and then grins. "Hey, you guys can totally watch me jerk off later if you want. Y'know, then we'll be ev—"
He's cut off when Lindsey steps close and shoves the side of his head. "I think we'll pass." She smirks at him, slinging her arm around his shoulders and grabbing Gerard around the waist, walking them both back toward the stage. "Just, Frank?" she says, sounding hesitant. He glances up at her, worried again, just in time to catch her smile. "When you talk about this—and you will—be kind."
The three of them crack up at the same time and Frank lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Oh, don't worry. Jamia's totally going to get the Glamor Shots version. All soft lighting and flattering angles." He clears his throat a little and then adds softly, "And nobody else ever hears about it. Promise."
Lindsey leans over and kisses his cheek. He smiles at her and she rubs off the lipstick stain with her thumb before pulling away, moving a few paces ahead of them down the hall. Her boots click on the tile and she swings around to look at them, throwing a bright red grin over her shoulder. "C'mon, bitches. Let's get those sweet asses in front of a crowd."
Gerard grins at Frank and then says, "You heard the lady. Let's fucking go."
Frank follows them, smiling, but stops when they reach the dressing room door. "Be there in a minute." He quickly shrugs on his sweater, making sure the two buttons are still pinned to the collar. He slips his phone out of his pocket to leave it on the counter next to Mikey's and notices that he has a full signal. He rolls his eyes and mutters, "Of fucking course."
Playing the show is a rush. They sound amazing, and everything's working on stage. Gerard is on fucking fire, strutting around, manhandling everyone, but especially himself. Lindsey watches from side-stage, and Frank finds himself watching them, seeing all the little moments when Gerard throws his hair to the side and looks over at her. It's so strange to see people do normal things after you've seen them have sex. He can't stop thinking, "I know what you look like when you come," and then he feels all kinds of wrong for thinking it.
When they get offstage, they're sweaty and that kind of satisfied that comes after putting everything they have into the music—giving it all up to the crowd and getting back even more in return. The four of them exchange the crazy-wide grins of a great post-show high, and they start to troop back to the dressing room.
Frank's heart starts beating a little faster. He gets to call his girl. And he's going to get laid. Well, sort of. He grins down at his right hand and follows Ray and Mikey down the hall. He pauses at the door, looking back at Gee and Lindsey, who are holding hands like teenagers. Gerard slows down when they get to the door, but Lindsey just fists her hands in his shirt and tows him right by, walking backwards down the hall. She winks at Frank, and as they round the corner he can see Gerard's face and that same blissed-out smile, looking like he can't even believe how lucky he got.
Frank smiles to himself and swings into the dressing room quickly, grabbing his bag and phone. He's thinking about Jamia, how she's probably moved to their bed by now, kicked out all the dogs and spread herself out in the middle of the mattress. He wonders what she's wearing and grins—he'll just have to play out the cliché and ask her. The post-show adrenaline concentrates low in his belly, reminding his dick that he's been waiting for this for hours, and he's about to get exactly what he wants. He's heading into the adjoining bathroom to call her when he realizes that Mikey's the only one in the room and the bathroom door is closed.
His heart sinks. "Is Ray showering?" He looks over at Mikey in the mirror.
Mikey's already changing out of his stage clothes. He's got his shirt halfway over his head when he answers, "Yup."
"And the bus is leaving when?"
Mikey puts a new shirt and a hoodie on and stuffs his hands in the pockets. "Soon, I think. Long drive tonight." He looks down at Frank's bag. "You want to shower?"
"Yeah, I'm all sweaty and gross," he mumbles, not looking up.
"You can probably use the other dressing room. I think they're already gone." Mikey heads into the hallway. Frank pokes his head out the door just in time to see Mikey emerge from the next room and give him a thumbs up. "I even checked it for spiders. Don't say I never did anything for you." He smiles and brushes past Frank, settling on the couch.
Frank backs out into the hall, pointing at him. "You are a god among men, Mikeyway."
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Mikey calls after him. "Try not to actually bring your phone into the shower with you. Wouldn't really recommend it."
Frank huffs out a laugh and takes a step back to stick his middle finger through the open doorway. Then he heads next door, Mikey's laughter at his back.
He's finally alone, locked into the bathroom of the empty dressing room. It's not the nicest of places, but he is not going to be fucking picky right now. He really does need to shower, so they're going to have to make this quick. He checks the phone signal for the third time, but it's still perfect and strong.
He's feeling sweaty and overheated and shrugs the sweater off, folding it and putting it in the bag. He takes off his flannel shirt, t-shirt and the long-sleeved shirt underneath. The cool air feels good on his sweaty skin after the heat of the lights, and he thumbs open his jeans, toeing off his shoes at the same time. He strips them off, along with his socks, until finally he's standing in front of the mirror, naked except for his briefs.
He runs his fingertips along his dick, sucking in a breath at the feel of himself through the thin cotton. He's already half-hard, from the adrenaline of being onstage, being keyed up for hours and, okay, yeah, maybe from thinking about Lindsey going down on Gerard right now in some hidden corner of the building. Thinking about the noises he'd make, her red fucking mouth around his cock and her hand slipping slowly back between his legs. Fuck.
He grabs the phone and hits the button before he can plan anything else or think things through. He looks at himself in the mirror while he waits for her to pick up, still stroking himself slowly through his underwear. He turns a little, startled as always by the near-blank white of his back. He's so used to seeing his torso as a dark jangle of ink that it's actually jarring when the clean patches of skin catch his eye.
Finally the phone connects. "Mmm, Frank. Hey baby." Her voice is slow like honey.
"Hey. You sleeping?" He keeps his voice low, in case she was.
"No," she says, still softly, and he hears the smallest intake of breath. "I maybe started without you, though."
"Oh yeah?" His heartbeat picks up, and he reaches over to flick off the overhead lights. Only a single light over the shower stall is left and he watches his dim reflection slide his hand over his stomach, teasing a little, as he says, "how long ago?"
Her breaths are coming a little erratically and she says, "Came twice already. Want to give me three?"
"Fuck yeah," he breathes, and slides his hand down over his dick again. He's already half hard, picturing her spread out on their bed, lube and toys beside her, one hand between her legs and the other on her breast, teasing her nipple. He fucking loves to watch her make herself come. "Which one are you using?"
"Mmm, nothing. Just my hand tonight. Want to feel it." She's almost whispering now. "Want to feel you."
His breath catches and his legs are not doing the best job of holding him up. "Fuck, J." He looks around before he puts down the toilet seat and sits there, leaning back as best as he can. It's fucking uncomfortable, but he doesn't care at all.
"Tell me. Tell me what you're doing right now." She sounds more breathless now, and he wants to catch up, to be there with her. He reaches down with one hand and digs around in the bottom of his bag for the little travel bottle of lube.
He keeps his voice steady and low, eyes closed as his hand slides over his cock. He lets out a small moan at how fucking good it feels. "I'm touching myself. Wish it was you." He grips himself tight, the way he likes it best, sliding up to rub his thumb across the head, sucking in a loud breath.
"Fuck. Yeah." Her voice breaks a little, and she whispers, "You hard yet?" His cock twitches under his hand, and he speeds up his strokes.
He's getting there so fucking fast, thinking of her fingers working inside herself, her thumb on her clit. "So fucking hard. Your voice. Just. Keep talking. Please."
Her answer is rough and intense: "If I was with you, I'd hold you down and fucking ride you right now. Feel your mouth on my tits while I take you so fucking deep."
His eyes fly open and he gasps out a loud breath, shocked. He's jacking himself hard and fast, and he's almost fucking there, so quick he's embarrassed. "Jesus. Fucking." He takes a breath, then two. "J, fuck, I'm gonna—"
"Yeah," she breathes in his ear. "Fucking come for me."
He slows his strokes slightly, pulling himself back from the edge with Herculean effort. "You first," he gasps. "I wanna hear you. Please, J. And then—fuck—I'm going to come all over your tits." She moans at that. He listens to her breath quicken, keeps stroking his cock. "If I was there, I'd have my fingers in you—three, just like you like, and I'd be sucking your clit." His eyes close again, imagining her spread out in front of him. "You taste so fucking good. I could lick you for hours. I will. I can't fucking wait." She's gasping now. He can hear how fucking close she is. "And then, fuck yeah, I want you to ride my cock. Wanna be fucking buried in you. Want your fingers in me when I come." He starts to thrust his hips up into his own hand.
"Fuck. Frank. I'm—I'm—" And then she comes, her shuddering breaths loud in his ear. He's so fucking close now, and he just has to hold out long enough to hear it all, every little gasp and sigh.
"Fuck," he bites out, flexing his feet up so that his thighs are taut. "Want to feel you." He's practically fucking his own fist now, curled forward, his whole body so fucking ready to come.
Her voice is still low and breathy as she says, "I felt you. Fucking me so hard. I want you to come all over me. Come on." Her tone shifts a little, low and commanding, "Fucking do it."
"Unh. Fuck," he gasps, and he finally lets himself go, swearing and slamming backwards so hard the toilet tank shifts, as he comes all over his stomach and hand.
It's quiet for a minute. The two of them just breathe together as they come down and then he hears a rattle and thump and Jamia's low laughter, sounding far away. There's more noise, and then she says, "I dropped the fucking phone."
He laughs too, surprised at how scratchy his voice sounds. "I have a fucking death grip on mine." He loosens his fingers a bit around the phone and blinks at his surroundings. He'd actually forgotten where he was for a while. He grimaces as the edge of the toilet tank digs into his back and he sits up slowly.
"That was fucking awesome," she says, and he can hear her rustling around, probably not pulling the sheets up. He always wants the covers on right after sex, and she's always pushing them off again, naked and satiated, fucking gorgeous.
"God damn, I miss you." He stands up slowly; his legs are actually sore and a little shaky. "Jesus fuck. I feel like I've been waiting to come for hours."
She laughs a little. "I fucking knew you had a boner when we talked before. I can always tell, you know."
"You can not. That's such bullshit."
"I so totally can. Three nights ago, when we were talking during your dinner break. You at least had a semi and you touched yourself a couple times."
He giggles, startling himself when it echoes off the bathroom walls. "Holy shit. You're like, the boner-whisperer."
"And don't you forget it, Iero." She sounds happy and it makes him miss her even more. He just wants to be there, to press his face into her neck and blow raspberries, make her cackle with laughter and then worry that she woke the babies.
"Six days," he says.
"Practically five, now." She yawns and sounds like she's trying to cover it. "I didn't even get to ask you about the show, and when is bus call? You probably really fucking need that shower now."
He looks down at himself. His come is everywhere, sticky and drying, and he's still itchy with dried sweat from the show. "Yeah, I'm pretty much disgusting."
She laughs. "I love you anyway. If it makes you feel any better there's no fucking way I'm cleaning up before I pass out."
He lowers his voice. "I like you dirty. I love the way you smell after sex."
"That's because you are a deeply disturbed individual."
He snorts. "You married me, so what does that say about you?"
"Please. I just married you to get close to Gerard. He's so dreamy." She sighs dramatically, and he can hear her moving in the bed, pictures her rolling onto her stomach and propping up on her forearms to talk to him, chin in one hand.
"Huh. So our marriage is a sham," he deadpans. "Bummer."
"You don't sound very upset. I would've thought you'd be more upset." She sounds so earnest, and god, she's good. He almost believes it.
"Nope, totally calling your bluff," he says, lightly. "It's been like ten years. You would've made your move by now."
"It's a long con."
He cracks up. "I love you so fucking much. A long con." He steps over and leans against the sink, still laughing. "If we weren't already married—"
"—you'd ask me again? Yeah, get in line, motherfucker." She's giggling now too, and then she yawns and it all comes out as kind of a snort. Which just makes her laugh harder.
"Oh, you think you know it all? Guess I don't need to tell you how I saw Gerard and Lindsey fucking, then." His heart is beating faster now.
Her laughter dies down and she says, "You saw what?"
She actually sounds kind of excited, so he continues, "Yeah. After I talked to you before. I was in this random creepy hallway in the back of the building and after I hung up, I almost ran into them, uh, up against a wall."
"Holy shit. What did you say?"
"Uh. Nothing? Like, they were already in the middle of things." He sighs. "Her tits were out, Jamia. I totally fucking panicked. I just hid and tried not to pay attention."
She's quiet for a second. "But you totally failed, didn't you." She laughs. "Oh honey. That sounds so weird. And kind of hot. But weird. Do they know? Did you tell them?"
He waits a beat and then admits, "My phone rang. After they were done, I mean. So, they know, yeah."
She cracks up. "You got caught. You Peeping Tom."
He laughs too. "Hey, shut up. I didn't do it on purpose. I apologized and shit. And it's good. We're fine."
"I can't believe you hid from them, you delicate fucking flower." She's actually cackling now. "I love it. Oh god, you have to tell me everything, but later, right? You've got to shower and go."
"Yeah, I'd better—" he starts.
"Yep, you go ahead. I'm just going to lie here and picture you, trapped, watching Gerard and Linds have sex." She laughs again.
Warmth spreads through him as he listens to her laughter. "Okay, you do that. I'm going to picture you picturing it while I'm in the shower."
"If you can get it up again right now, you have to text me and let me know. I will be so impressed."
He pushes down his messy briefs, stepping on them to get them off one-handed. "Won't you already know about it, boner-whisperer?"
"Please. I have to at least have auditory contact with the boner. Amateur."
He gives her an exaggerated sigh and then lowers his voice. "'Night, J. Fuckin' love you."
"Fuckin' love you back," she says.
He stands there, naked and filthy and grinning so wide it kind of hurts. He hangs up the phone.