Pushing Boundaries

*Elliott*

I was exhausted from the workday. Eight hours of dealing with the public was enough to give even the kindest person a fucking stroke. All I wanted was to go home, shower, drink some wine, and pass out on the couch watching Netflix. That was the goal. The only thing on my mind as I got into my car was getting the hell off the lot.

And then my phone rang.

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering. It was him. I didn't want to answer. I was too tired to deal with whatever mood he was in. But I knew if I didn't, I'd regret it later. He didn't like being ignored. I sighed and picked up.

"Hello."

"Are you off?" His voice was low and steady, like always. Unbothered. Dangerous.

"Yeah," I said, pulling out of the parking lot. "Just left."

"Good. Come here."

"What if I have plans?" I asked, too sharp. "Maybe I don't jump every time you snap your fingers."

"Then cancel them," he said, as if that was obvious.

I scoffed. "You know you aren't the only person--"

"The door's unlocked. I'll be home at eight."

Click.

I stared at my phone.

Asshole.

I should've gone home. I should've ignored him, turned around, and let the evening rot in silence. But I didn't. Because I always went. Because he knew I would.

His house was forty-five minutes from work. By the time I got there, it'd barely be six. What was I supposed to do for two hours--wander around his pristine museum of a home while pretending I belonged?

The entire drive, I tried to talk myself out of it.

He didn't own me. He didn't even ask--he just told. Like he always did.

And I always listened.

When I pulled up, the house looked like it had stepped out of a luxury magazine. Elegant. Cold. A place meant to be admired, not lived in. My shitty little Honda groaned as I parked in the immaculate driveway. I shoved the gearshift into park, stared up at the towering front entrance, and for a moment--just a moment--I hated him.

Then I got out and walked up the steps.

The door was, of course, unlocked.

"Hello, Mr. Elliott!" Aiden greeted me, all practiced cheer. His suit was tailored to perfection, his smile effortless. The man was a butler in the old-fashioned sense--like something out of a goddamned noir film.

"Hey," I muttered. "How are you?"

"Well, thank you. Yourself?"

I shrugged. There was no real point in pretending. He knew what I was here for.

"May I take your coat?"

"I'll hold onto it," I said. Didn't feel right leaving a piece of myself in someone else's hands, not here.

"You'll find the usual room prepared," he said politely. "Feel free."

His voice was smooth, professional. But there was a flicker in his eyes--sympathy? Amusement? Disgust? Hard to say.

I climbed the stairs slowly. Not because I was tired. Because I was hesitating.

His room was exactly as I remembered--immaculate, expensive, and sterile. The kind of space that said nothing about who he was. Nothing personal. Nothing vulnerable.

On the bed: a note and a gift bag.

-Take a bath. Wear the clothes.-

I scoffed.

Of course. No please. No explanation. Just... do as you're told. I muttered something unkind under my breath and walked into the bathroom. The light flickered on automatically, revealing a spa-level setup: marble, chrome, a tub big enough to swim laps in. I started the water and stripped, catching glimpses of myself in the dozens of mirrored surfaces.

Pale skin. Inked arms. Collarbones sharp enough to cut glass above more images needled into my skin. My hair fell in dark curls around my face, hiding an eyebrow piercing. A bright flash of metal glinted from my septum. The bit of make-up I'd wore that day had smudged-- really highlighting the fact that I looked like I hadn't slept in days.

Probably because I hadn't.

I sank into the bath, letting the heat bite at my skin until it dulled into something bearable. Then I just floated. He always knew I wouldn't say no to a hot bath. Bastard. I stayed there until my fingers pruned. When I finally pulled myself out, I toweled off and padded back to the bedroom. The clothes were still waiting like a quiet demand. Black jeans pricey enough to have fed me for a month. A soft gray shirt. Designer boxers. And a blazer so nice I was scared to touch it. He always dressed me up like a doll. Never said why.

I put the clothes on.

I always did.

The mirror confirmed I looked... expensive. Like someone I didn't recognize. I grabbed my eyeliner from my old jeans and added the finishing touch. Might as well keep something mine.

I glanced at the clock.

7:55.

He'd be here soon. My stomach twisted--not quite dread. Not quite anticipation. Something messier. When I heard the front door, I straightened my shirt and took a breath. His footsteps echoed upstairs, slow and purposeful. When the door opened, he filled the space like he always did--tall, perfect, devastating.

"Hi," he said, voice soft.

"Hi," I answered. The word caught in my throat.

He stepped forward, cupped my face, and kissed me.

And I let him.

Because I always did.

"You look good," he murmured, brushing his fingers down my sleeve.

"You picked the clothes," I replied, avoiding his eyes.

He tilted my chin up. "But you wear them better than I imagined."

I hated that he could still fluster me.

He kissed me again, then took my hand and led me downstairs. I followed without asking where we were going. Because I never asked. And he never told. Outside, a driver waited. Of course. He opened the car door for me. I slid in. He followed and settled an arm around my shoulders. I leaned into him. Because it was easier than fighting.

"I don't like the secrecy," I muttered, voice small.

"That's what makes it fun," he said, kissing my temple.

I wiped the kiss away with the back of my hand.

"Fun for you."

He laughed and leaned close, whispering at the corner of my mouth, "I know what you're doing."

I glared at him. He grinned like it was all a game.

"It works for you," he said. "That whole moody, soft-edges-covered-in-spikes thing. It's hot."

"Fuck you," I muttered.

"Gladly," he whispered.

His voice curled down my spine like smoke. Then his hand was at the nape of my neck, massaging gently, thumb pressing circles into tense muscle.

"You're wound tight," he said.

I let my head fall forward, letting him touch me. "Work sucked. Everyone was awful."

"Tell me."

I did. A little. Vague stories about coupon moms and demanding customers. Just enough to fill the space. He listened. That was the dangerous thing. Sometimes, he did listen.

"You don't have to keep working there," he said eventually. "You could just stay here."

"You offering me a job?" I asked.

"No. I'm offering you peace."

"Sounds like a sugar daddy offer."

He smiled. "Is that such a bad thing?"

I huffed. "I'm not a pet, Spence."

His hand stilled on my neck. He leaned in. My heart skipped a beat.

His mouth brushed my ear when he said, very quietly, very gently--

"You're my pet."

The words made me shiver. He didn't own me. Except, somehow, he did. His mouth drifted lower, pressing kisses along my neck. I let him. I always did. We spent the rest of the drive in silence. His hands moved lazily over my body as I sat beside him--possessive, claiming. I hated it. I needed it. I turned my face toward the window, closed my eyes, and pretended I wasn't enjoying the closeness or the attention.

The car slowed. Then stopped.

Spencer's hand slipped away like it had never been there. He climbed out without a word. The door opened on my side. He held out a hand. I hesitated. He wiggled his fingers--impatient, expectant. I took it. He pulled me to my feet.

We were downtown. Somewhere loud. Somewhere bright. People everywhere, chatter and headlights and the pulse of music spilling from nearby bars.

I looked at him. He was smiling. Smug. Then it hit me. I knew this place. My stomach sank.

"No," I said.

"Yes," he said, too quickly.

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"Spencer. No."

"Why not?"

There was a reason I looked like I fronted a metalcore band. Once upon a time--I did. The place we were staring at wasn't just a bar. It was a venue. A nice little spot, known for its quality open mic nights. The kind of place that had a crowd ready for anything--from garage bands to the most unexpected performances. I knew exactly what the fucker wanted. I crossed my arms, trying to keep my cool, but my voice betrayed me.

"I haven't practiced in so long."

But Spencer was already walking to the trunk, pulling out a guitar case. He handed it to me with that stupid grin still plastered on his face. I stared at the case, feeling a wave of heat and hesitation flood through me.

"You're insane," I muttered, taking it from him.

"Maybe," he said, shrugging, still that cocky smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "But I know you. You can't resist."

I looked at the venue again. The stage was visible through the big glass doors--dim lights casting long shadows, the sound of laughter and chatter spilling out. My fingers itched. The old instinct was there, buried beneath the layers of time. But no.

"I can resist," I lied, trying to ignore the fluttering in my chest. I shoved the instrument--gently--back at him.

Spencer didn't budge, holding his hands away as if to refuse taking it. "Your name's already on the list for tonight."

I frowned, trying to suppress the spark of irritation. "You have to audition for this place."

He gave me that arrogant grin, the one that made me want to smack it off his face. "I showed them some of your old music."

"You didn't--" I took a deep breath, stopping myself from finishing the thought. Spencer wasn't stupid. But he was damn good at pushing my buttons. "All right, whatever. I'm not doing this."

"Oh, you are," he said, voice smooth as ever, his eyes glinting with mischief. "They're expecting you. Besides... when's the last time you played in front of a crowd?"

Too fucking long. That's when. I spun on my heel and grabbed for the car door, determined to escape this insanity. But of course, it was locked. I yanked at the handle a couple of times, confirming my suspicion. Then, with a growl of frustration, I snapped, "I'm not doing this, Spencer!"

Spencer didn't flinch. He didn't even look worried. He just leaned against the car, all smug and relaxed, like he was enjoying the hell out of this. "You can resist, or you can get your ass in there and show them why they asked for you."

My heart slammed against my chest. "You're a fucking bastard."

Spencer winked. Fucking. Winked.

I scrubbed my hand down my face and groaned. "What do I even play?!"

He shrugged, all casual.

"Helpful," I sneered, my voice dripping with sarcasm.

I started pacing the sidewalk now, guitar slung over my back, my hands running through my hair--whatever style I had, gone. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy playing.

I loved it--or at least... I used to. But making a living as a musician? That dream died a long time ago for some no-name fuck from the middle of nowhere. Believe me--I tried. My bandmates had quit on me right as we started to lift off the ground, and when we fell... I crashed hard. The pressure of it all--fame, money, the grind--it shattered whatever fire I had left. One minute we were on the cusp of something real, and the next? I was picking up the pieces of a dream I was never meant to have. All because-- no-- I didn't want to think about that right now. Spencer found me during the tail end of my solo career--back when I still had the balls to chase it down. But after a while, that dream died too. Not with a bang. Just... quietly. Like a song fading out before the final chord.

Suddenly, Spencer caught my shoulders and turned me to face him.

"Elliot." His voice carried weight--steady, commanding--and I couldn't look away. "You have talent that should be shared."

Then, something shifted. His expression softened, voice dropping into something rare and vulnerable.

"If you really don't want to, we'll leave... but it would mean the world to me if you played."

Damn him.

I brushed his arms off. "Man, fuck you."

But then--against my better judgment--I was walking into the club. I could feel his smile behind me. Inside, the place seemed smaller. More intimate. Low lighting, dark wood paneling. It looked more like a jazz lounge than a dive. The kind of place with a real stage, not just a raised platform in the corner. A man stepped up, extending a hand to stop me. Older, with graying hair and a beard.

"Name?" he asked.

"Um... Elliott Martin?" It came out sounding more like a question than an answer.

"Oh! You're the guy, right? Yeah, the boss is real excited about this one. Come with me."

I turned and shot Spencer a dirty look. He just smiled. What the fuck, I mouthed.

He grinned wider. Asshole. I followed the man toward a table tucked in the corner, where a few guys were lounging around. Musicians, probably. They had that look--casual but watchful, half-bored, half-sizing-me-up.

"Hey, this is the guy I was talking about," the older man said. "Our special guest."

One of them gave a low whistle. Another leaned back in his chair, grinning. "Oh yeah. I remember the vids."

A third stood and offered his hand. "Gonna do that screamo shit here?"

I felt my face flush. "Uh... no. Probably not."

Screamo shit. Unappreciative bastards. I'd like to toss them in a mosh pit just to see what'd happen. I took the empty chair at the table and set the case beside me. The conversation picked up again, drifting around me, but I wasn't listening. I was looking at the stage. The setup. The room.

Fuck.

I couldn't remember the last time I had an audience like this. Not just a handful of drunks in some shitty dive bar. This was curated. Intentional. Alive. I needed to do something with my hands, ground myself. So I reached for the guitar Spencer had forced on me. It probably needed tuning. Part of me hoped--stupidly--that he'd somehow tracked down my old, beaten-up acoustic. The one with the chipped frets and duct tape holding the binding together. The one that taught me how to bleed into music.

But Spencer being Spencer?

Yeah.

When I cracked the case, I nearly blacked out. A Collings OM2H stared back at me, rich sunburst finish gleaming like it belonged in a glass case at a museum. This--

This was not a backup guitar. This was a love letter in wood and steel. This was-- more expensive than anything I'd ever owned. My head snapped up to find him watching me from a few feet away.

"Is that okay?" he asked, suddenly hesitant. "I know shit all about guitars."

Was this okay???

"Spence, I--"

My voice nearly cracked. I had to clear my throat, force the burn in my chest down before it crawled up behind my eyes.

"This is perfect. Holy fuck."

Well, now I had to play.

_______________________________________________________________

*Spencer *

I secured a seat near the stage and ordered something top-shelf--equal parts reward and precaution. Elliott might very well never forgive me for this. I accepted that. But when he opened the case and saw the guitar... That look. It told me I'd been right. He could posture all he liked, curse my name, swear up and down he was done. But that spark in his eyes? That wasn't gone. Just buried. He was going to play tonight. And I would finally get to see the version of him the world was supposed to know.

I'd been dying to get him out of that backwoods hardware store for nearly two years. He was so much more than some shitty retail manager. Talent like his--raw, unrefined--the kind that lingered long after you caught just a glimpse. I knew what he was capable of, even if he didn't. And it was a fucking crime for him to pretend otherwise. Still, if this went sideways, I had a backup plan. I always did.

I sipped my drink and scanned the crowd. The usual suspects--people who came every week for open mic nights. A few curious newcomers. A handful of college-aged girls giggling, whispering about the cute tattooed boy and wondering when he'd play. Unfortunately for you, girls--he's mine. I suffered through the acts before him. Not awful, just... forgettable. There was only one voice I wanted to hear. Only two hands I was interested in watching--hands that could masterfully tame an instrument I'd tried and failed to learn more times than I cared to admit.

"Let's welcome our next artist to the stage," the host said, voice smooth and crowd-ready. "Elliott Martin!"

Polite applause fluttered through the room. Elliott, guitar in hand, crossed the stage to the microphone, where a single stool waited. He was nervous. I could tell. He always bit the inside of his lip when he was nervous. He sat, strummed a few chords to check the tuning, and adjusted the mic to his height.

"Hey, everyone," he said, and the room gave a warm reply. Even his spoken voice was melodic. I don't think he realized it.

"I'm Elliott. But... I guess you knew that."

That awkward smile. Cute. He cleared his throat, fingers brushing lightly over the strings.

"It's been a while, so... bear with me."

He began to strum. Something familiar. Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen.

"I heard there was a secret chord..."

His voice dripped through the sound system like honey. A quiet buzz of conversation had lingered through every act that came before--but the moment Elliott started singing? It vanished. Every ear turned. Every breath stilled. His voice wasn't just heard. It commanded. That's why we were here. Elliott's eyes were closed now. For him, the crowd didn't exist anymore. There was only the music. The story. He was lost to it--and I was lost to him.

Watching him was a religious experience. The way he moved with the notes. The way his body curved around the strings. He'd abandoned his blazer before stepping on stage, and I could see the muscles in his inked arms working the guitar like it had always been a part of him. His throat bobbed with each note. Those long, slender fingers danced over the frets like they'd been born there.

"Hallelujah..."

His voice nearly cracked with emotion--and somehow, that made it even better.

"Hallelujah..."

I caught at least a couple of the college girls dabbing at their eyes.

"Hallelujah."

When the final chord faded, the room erupted. Not the polite claps from before--this was the kind of applause reserved for something that wrecked you. For something breathtaking. Elliott opened his eyes and blinked, like waking from a dream. And then he smiled. Not the awkward one from earlier--a real one. Genuine. He was beautiful. The crowd was enraptured for the entirety of the thirty-minute slot he was given. Every song? A masterpiece.

"You've all been so kind," he said into the mic, voice steady now, comfortable. "I only have time for one more, and I hope you don't mind if it's an original."

A wave of approving murmurs rolled through the crowd. Instead of strumming chords this time, Elliott plucked the strings in a wondrously melancholic melody.

"Just give me a minute

Maybe two

I wanna laugh about it

'Til I come unglued

'Cause if it's true what they say

Laughter might keep the tears at bay

But these days, it don't feel the same

And I...

I keep trying to hold on

To a dream that's almost gone

And I'm fading--

I'm changing--

Yeah.

Who have I become?"

His voice was like the notes themselves--soft, vulnerable, haunting. He sang of losing himself, of watching the world move on without him, of wanting to stay tethered to a past that had already slipped away. It was a story of someone who was hurting, someone who had lost everything and hadn't let anyone see it. It was the first time I'd heard this song. I hadn't realized he was still writing. The thought made my chest swell with pride on his behalf. Maybe, just maybe, he hadn't let his dream go yet.