“By Grapthar’s hammer!” Jason crowed, yanking open the shower door and spilling beer on Alexander’s feet. It must have been another fun night.
These publicity tours always turned into a fun night for Jason. It just wasn’t fair. “My room is full of groupies. I thought you would be off with that Shakespeare friend of yours.”
Alexander still stiffened (in more places than one).
He’d always hated being so well hung, and his unrequited crush on Jason, always a burden, was more uncomfortable than usual when he was naked and erect.
“You were never serious about the craft, Jason,” Alexander retorted, lifting an eyebrow in a pointed manner. “Any craft.
” The one disastrous night that Jason had tried to be Alexander’s lover—the result of some potent drug given to him by a fan—hovered between them in memory,
bloodier and more gruesome than Banquo.
“That’s like real corn-fed Iowa beef,” Jason slurred before collapsing on the bathroom tiles. Alexander sighed, hefted Jason into the spare bed. Jason tossed.
“Cancelled,” he moaned again and again.
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