Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Jake wonders if there’s a parallel universe where this ends differently. If there’s one where he’s not about to do this.

He can’t even make eye contact, eyes drifting to the floor-to-ceiling windows of Bradley’s modern hotel room. The ones that overlook the hills of the city where they started this fucked up journey in the first place.

Taking a deep breath, Jake tries not to lose his nerve, summons the last bit of anger and discontent that’s been simmering for nearly a year now.

“I want a divorce.”

Bradley blinks from his spot on the annoyingly stylish chair next to the bed. Rolls the rocks glass of whiskey in his hands slowly before answering. “Okay.”

Jake sighs.

It should be life-altering, earth-shattering, but it’s not.

It just is.

+

Truth is, they never should’ve gotten married. Definitely shouldn’t have stayed married. It wasn’t even planned.

One blurry night visiting Bradley on tour, Jake buzzing with tequila. High on Bradley’s hands circling his waist, Bradley's breath ghosting the back of Jake’s neck as he pulled him close amidst the throng of people in the after-party.

Jake remembers it, barely.

It felt surreal, like some sort of romcom, waking up with something dead in his mouth and Bradley’s dad’s ring on his finger. Jake's chest was warm and content, with the man he loved next to him, but Jake still found himself anxious about Bradley’s reaction to their rash decision.

Bradley had only laughed, looking down at the silver tucked against Jake’s knuckle. “Knew from the moment I met you that you’d never agree to marry me sober.”

And that was that.

+

Jake calls Javy on his way to the hell that is LAX, wondering if he should’ve braved Southwest to fly direct to Austin from Burbank instead.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Jake tells him. “This should be painless. I don’t want anything of his. I’m sure he doesn’t want anything of mine.”

“That’s not what I meant, Jake. Asking as your friend, not your lawyer.”

“Same answer,” Jake deflects. “I want nothing to do with him unless it involves divorce papers.”

Letting the taillights ahead of him on La Cienega overtake and blur his vision, Jake almost believes it.

Lime wedges slipping from beneath his fingertips, Jake tries not to be preemptively annoyed as he hears someone approach the bar while he sets up. Jake can already tell by the tread it isn’t Ellen, or anyone else he works with, so it must be the performer tonight or one of his posse.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?”

Jake barely conceals a gag. So much for not being irritable.

“Jake,” he answers, short and to the point, not even sparing the deep voice a glance.

The guy shifts from foot to foot for a moment and Jake looks up to see Bradley Bradshaw, in all his mustached glory. His biceps are straining against his black button-up, and okay…Jake didn’t even realize someone could get that close to busting out of a long sleeve, but whatever.

Based on the way he's been carrying himself since he walked into Jake’s bar earlier to start his soundchecks, confidence oozing from every pore, Bradshaw knows exactly what he’s doing with that shirt.

Bradshaw smiles, smarmy and sleazy and Jake realizes how right he was in his initial assumptions. Jake has seen the bare-chested magazine spreads, the paparazzi photos of Bradshaw’s late nights, the articles simultaneously calling Bradshaw talented while implying he's less than a delight to work with.

Expensive cologne wafts across the bar, tickling Jake’s nose with something pleasant after the overbearing smell of bleach the closing bartenders used last night. “You look good back there, Jake.”

Jake pushes a whiskey, neat across the counter instead of laughing in Bradshaw’s annoyingly handsome face. “That line work on all the groupies?”

“Usually,” Bradshaw shrugs, unrepentant. “None of them are as pretty as you, though.”

“How flattering,” Jake answers, flat as a board and debating how rude he can get away with being to the man that’s supposed to be performing in his bar in a few short hours.

Bradshaw’s a big name, arguably too big to be playing a small venue like Thunderbird. Jake has no idea how Ellen swung it, but she’s a scary miracle worker so he has learned not to ask. She covers all her bases and is the only reason Jake already knows Bradshaw’s drink of choice.

Bradshaw raises an eyebrow like he doesn’t believe the disinterest slipping from Jake’s lips. He might have a leg to stand on, Jake wasn’t subtle in checking him out while Bradshaw was on stage earlier.

He’s even more gorgeous than Jake expected. And Jake’s a red-blooded American man with a keen interest in broad shoulders and chest hair that peeks out from underneath a tantalizingly opened button-up, so who can blame him, really.

Had he known Bradshaw would slide over, not hiding the way he’s undressing Jake with his eyes, he probably would’ve at least tried to be a little less obvious.

Too late now.

“You gonna stick around for the show?”

This time, Jake actually does roll his eyes. “That’s how jobs work. Here all night, Bradshaw.”

He does not add that he wouldn’t be if Nathan hadn’t called in sick.

It’s not much of a hardship to jump back behind the bar though, since Jake's employees have been teasing him about turning into Management with a capital M, the kind that’s more trouble in the well than they’re worth.

Reminding them that he’s the owner now, not even the manager, won’t do him any favors so Jake figures handling a few busy shifts can jog their memories about how he does just fine back there.

Caramel eyes twinkle. “So, you do know who I am. I was starting to worry.”

Jake fights a smirk, albeit not very hard. “Cute that you think me knowing who you are actually plays to your advantage.”

Bradshaw shrugs, seemingly unbothered. “Gotta work with what you have.”

“And that is?”

Another grin forms underneath that ridiculous mustache. Jake hates that he wants to lick it. “Since I’m the main act tonight, I bet I could convince the owner to let you off early.”

“Sure you could,” Jake snorts.

“Bradley!” Someone yells as they come out from behind the stage, a beautifully terrifying woman with dark hair and chaos in her eyes. “If you want to eat before the show we need to get going. Stop harassing the pretty bartender, he has enough shit to do.”

Bradshaw snorts, pushing the untouched whiskey back towards Jake. “I’ll be back for that later,” he promises, eyes full of heat as they rake across Jake’s form-fitting black t-shirt.

Jake tries not to fidget, ignoring the sparks zipping up his spine in favor of popping the caps off the pour spouts on his liquor bottles in the well.

He thinks he’s safe from Bradshaw’s hot, assessing gaze when he turns to head to the stage, but Jake is proven wrong when Bradshaw turns back around just before he disappears, shouting, “I’ll sing a song just for you, sweetheart!”

Christ.

That should not be as attractive as it is.

Jake downs the glass in one go, wincing a little as the dark liquor burns his throat.

+

Bradley grins up at him later that night, eyes shining with amusement as Jake pushes him down onto the plush couch in his hotel room across the street from Thunderbird.

“Eager, are we? And here I was thinking you wouldn’t give me the time of day after the show.”

Lit up like a livewire, Jake’s felt electric since he swore Bradshaw locked eyes with him mid-song and winked, the consummate showoff that he is.

Jake scoffs. “Shut up and put those hands to good use, I know you know how to use ‘em.”

“Knew you’d be a little bossy,” Bradley responds, hooking a thick arm around Jake’s waist and pulling him in tight. He mouths at Jake’s neck, trails up to his ear. “Gonna tell me exactly how to fuck you? How I get to make you scream?”

Jake can’t hide his shiver as Bradley’s words ghost over his skin, prickling his nerves.

“Show me what you got, Bradshaw.”

+

Jake leaves before Bradley wakes up, late the next morning.

The sex was good, amazing, even but it’s not like Jake is going to date this guy. He’s heard the stories.

And there have been so, so many of them.

Jake figures that’s the end of it, and Bradley Bradshaw can just be a funny story he pulls out during drunken games of I never, or when Javy gets on him for all the nights he spends alone at home.

Unfortunately, what Jake doesn’t count on, couldn’t have prepared for, is to see Bradley in the doorway of his still-closed bar, four hours later while Jake finishes inventory.

“I think this is technically considered breaking and entering,” Jake grumbles, loud enough that Bradley knows he’s being addressed despite Jake’s focus remaining on the cases in front of him.

“Ellen let me in on her way out. Said you’d be sticking around until Vick comes in to open.”

Jake fights a cringe. Ellen made way too many suggestive comments last night after witnessing the tail end of his interaction with Bradley.

He has decidedly not shared the information of where he spent the night for fear Ellen might implode with excitement.

Bradley shoves his hands in the deep pockets of his sweatpants, looking as sheepish as one can manage with an expensive chain peeking out from beneath a stretched-out shirt collar and curls falling across their forehead. “Were you going to tell me?”

Jake raises an eyebrow. “Tell you what?”

“That you own the place.”

“Not sure what difference that makes, Bradshaw,” Jake says, if a little snidely.

“It doesn’t. Would’ve been nice to know the guy I was trying to ask out wouldn’t be all that impressed by me though.”

“If I were still a full-time bartender, I also wouldn’t be impressed by you.”

“Because of the money?”

“I think you know it’s not the money.”

Bradley snorts, drumming his fingers on the wood of the bar. “It’s the reputation. Got it.”

Jake shrugs, not willing to deny something that’s pretty much the truth.

“It is surprising though,” Bradley continues, after a few moments of Jake staring at the bottles against the wall as if he doesn’t already know everything that sits there by heart.

“What is?” Jake asks, spine stiffening instinctively.

“An owner that prefers being behind the bar rather than talking to the people he books to perform.”

“Thunderbird has an event manager that I think you’ve had the pleasure of meeting, otherwise you wouldn’t be here right now,” Jake says. “And luckily for you annoying fucking musicians, Ellen has a lot more patience than I do.”

Despite Jake’s derision, Bradley grins. “We’re more annoying than the general public you have to deal with on a nightly basis? Didn’t think that was possible.”

“You’re not as responsive to being told to fuck off,” Jake clarifies.

Bradley’s expression goes a little dark at that, but he quickly recovers, forcing something light and airy into his tone.

He shifts his weight, leaning those impressive forearms on the bar top and encroaching on Jake’s space. “Did you buy the place? Pretty big purchase for, what, twenty-five? Practically a wunderkind.”

“Thirty,” Jake corrects. “I could say the same about you. We’re nearly the same age.”

Bradley waves him off. “Nepo baby that can play a bunch of instruments, what’s your excuse?”

Jake grimaces.

Anyone who’s even remotely familiar with the music industry knows about Bradshaw’s tragic backstory; parents died in a car crash after one of his dad’s shows, while baby Bradley Bradshaw waited patiently in their Vegas hotel room with dad’s best friend and producer, Pete Mitchell.

“My old man,” Jake explains with a shrug. The background for both of their youthful successes isn’t that different, now that Jake thinks about it. “Grew up here, started this place. He was the one that was always into the music scene; he loved talking the artists into playing here because it’s a little cozier. I think he would’ve tried to make a go of it if he weren’t so fucking tone-deaf.”

Bradley smiles, a soft, knowing little thing. Like he can feel the affection beneath Jake’s words.

“He died last year.”

Jake doesn’t know why he’s telling him this. Maybe because he gets it, the deep connection to music, to art through a father that’s no longer around to help it thrive.

There’s pity in those big brown eyes and Jake holds a hand up in his face. “Don’t.”

“What?”

“Say you’re sorry.”

Bradley purses his lips. “Believe me, I wasn’t going to. I’ve heard that enough times over the past few decades.” A wry smile forms beneath his mustache. “You’d think that would’ve given me time to come up with what I’d rather hear, so I’d have something comforting to say to you in this moment but…”

“You only know how to communicate through music,” Jake guesses.

“Got me figured out already, Seresin?”

No, Jake wants to say.

He just gets it. Communication only takes one form for him too.

But they’ve known each other less than twenty-four hours and Jake has already shared far more than he planned, so he raises his eyebrows instead. “I’ll have to fire Ellen if she’s going to continue to be your informant. She’s supposed to be my business partner, not give away my last name to any handsome guy that asks.”

Jake resolutely does not mention that he wouldn't fire Ellen even if he actually had the power to do so.

Bradley pouts. It’s unbearable in its cuteness, the way a six-foot-plus man widens his dark eyes and somehow makes it work. “Thought you might moonlight as a spy or something, with how stealthily you snuck out this morning. Don’t blame Ellen, I had to charm some info out of her.”

“Most people would take that as a hint, instead of stalking me at my place of work.”

Slow and sure, Bradley walks around to Jake’s side of the bar, right to where Jake is leaning against the counter. Bradley telegraphs his intentions and gives Jake plenty of space to separate them.

Jake doesn’t, letting flames lick up his spine as his eyes roam over Bradley’s bulk.

Bradley shrugs, fully smiling now. “You haven’t kicked me out yet, so I’m thinking the alleged stalking is working. Despite your best efforts not to like me.”

Jake sighs, over-dramatically put out, before pulling him in, intoxicated by that deep, woodsy scent that’s been lingering in his nose since he first saw Bradshaw yesterday.

He noses along the exposed skin at Bradley’s collar, dragging his teeth along the scars that paint his neck and jaw. Lets his hands wander, across the planes of muscle restrained by soft cotton, clear in his touch.

“Jake,” Bradley grunts, fingers gripping tight on Jake’s hips and holding him in place. Bradley's taking deep breaths in through his nose as if he’s just barely holding onto his last shred of self-control. “This is not why I came here.”

Jake wants to laugh. Of course, this walking red flag is putting up a protest at the prospect of easy sex.

Somehow, it makes Jake want to drop to his knees even more. Jake can’t stop thinking of the stretch of his lips around that gorgeous cock, wants to hear Bradley throw his head back and moan, to watch him writhe like Jake did over and over again last night.

“Don’t tell me – big bad Bradley Bradshaw’s never fooled around somewhere he might get caught?” Jake taunts. “Your street cred will be ruined.”

Bradley's voice comes out strangled. “This is your bar, hardly counts as fucking around in public.”

“So you wouldn’t be interested in what I have in mind, then,” Jake teases, hand running down Bradley’s chest and abs to cup the bulge growing beneath his pants.

“Didn’t say that.”

“Good,” Jake whispers against the skin of Bradley’s neck, pressing a light kiss before he slides to his knees, kissing along Bradley’s cotton-covered torso.

Bradley sucks in a sharp breath, hands white knuckling the counter at Jake’s back.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Jake,” Bradley grunts as Jake pulls his sweats down.

Jake doesn’t answer, instead sucking at Bradley’s cock over his briefs, relishing in the shallow breaths he hears above him, smiling when Bradley's hips buck of their own accord, following the heat of Jake’s mouth.

When Jake pulls the fabric down, suckling at the head, letting spit pool in his mouth, Bradley groans, just on the side of too loud for their current setting. Jake widens his lips, taking Bradley in with an obscene, wet noise, and Bradley swears. “Fuck. Can’t believe how good you look like this.”

Bradley’s rough tenor slides down Jake’s spine, sweet like honey, and straight to his cock where it’s already beginning to strain against the confines of his own briefs.

Working his way farther down Bradley’s thick cock with every bob of his head, Jake's ears are buzzing with the constant stream of muttered, filthy praise leaving Bradley’s lips above him.

Jake gets lost in it, focus having narrowed down to the weight in his mouth, the stretch of his lips, the salt smearing across his tongue. His fingers are digging into the skin of Bradley’s hips, nails leaving little half-moons as Jake tries to stay tethered to reality.

“Your fucking mouth, sweetheart,” Bradley grunts. “Trying to kill me?”

Jake moans, muffled as Bradley slides deeper and Bradley’s fist smacks the counter behind him in response.

“Gonna lay you out for hours after this,” Bradley promises, voice strained. “Repay you for treating me so sweet on your fucking knees looking like a goddamn wet dream. Want to get my mouth on you and open you up with my tongue until you cry.”

Jake finds himself inexplicably glad he’s also in comfy clothes, fingers sliding easily into his gym shorts to grip himself as tears form in his eyes, spit dripping down his chin as Bradley’s cock presses down on his tongue. Jake swipes a thumb over the precome gathering at the head of his own cock, stroking hard and fast.

It’s a little rough, a little dry. But it’s still fucking perfect.

“So fucking perfect,” Bradley echoes Jake’s thoughts and he can’t help but keen at the praise, body going stiff as he comes, letting it rush through him hard and fast.

Bradley’s hands leave the counter to tug on Jake’s hair in warning. “M’close.”

Jake just hollows his cheeks and sucks harder, riding out the aftershocks and letting more heat wash over him as he tastes the salt spurting in his mouth, down his throat. He stays like that until Bradley whines, pushing Jake off with shaky hands.

Jake rests his forehead on Bradley’s thigh, breathing harshly and panting as he tries to regain some sense of control for a few precious moments before Bradley pulls him to his feet.

Bradley reaches for the waistband of his shorts after fixing his sweats and Jake’s traitorous cock gives a feeble twitch beneath the fabric.

“I’m good,” Jake mumbles, averting his gaze and trying to tuck himself into Bradley’s neck as he feels the flush rising on his cheeks. He tries not to grimace at the come cooling in his briefs.

Bradley swears when he catalogs Jake’s embarrassment, hands suddenly tight like a vice around Jake again.

“That’s hot as fuck,” Bradley murmurs, pulling Jake in for a searing kiss and moaning straight into his mouth when their tongues tangle, no doubt tasting himself in Jake’s mouth.

They make out, somewhat lazily, for a while before Bradley pulls away, groaning like it physically pains him to take his lips off Jake’s. “Let me take you on a real date. You must have people working the bar for you some nights, at least.”

“Don’t you have a tour to get back to?”

Bradley’s brow furrows. “I’m not on tour right now.”

“You don't have to go home? LA, I assume?”

“No, I live here.”

“Then what’s with the hotel room?”

Bradley looks down, a little bashful. He leans against the back counter of the bar and Jake chides himself for immediately wanting to close the space between their bodies.

“Sometimes the after-party goes a little too hard for me to risk the drive back to Tarrytown.”

Jake’s surprised by that, Bradley living in a sleepy neighborhood, but tries not to show it. Doesn’t exactly fit in with the rockstar he’s read about on TMZ.

“Aren’t you from California?”

Bradley’s eyes are sparkling. Jake hates him. “Looked me up, did you?”

Jake rolls his eyes, staring pointedly at Bradshaw’s garish red shirt, his sun-bleached hair, and everything about him that screams Southern California surfer. “Call it an educated guess.”

“Knew you were an observant one.”

“So, Texas,” Jake brings up again flatly. “Don’t tell me, you secretly thought you could come out here and become a cowboy. You want to pull a reverse Taylor Swift? Change over to country music?”

Now it’s Bradley’s turn to roll his eyes. “Because it’s so weird for an artist to want to live in the live music capital of the country. Much to the chagrin of everyone else involved in my career. Besides, Austin cares about real music more than LA ever will.”

Jake’s heart swells with pride for his hometown. “And you agreed to play this last-minute gig for practically no money because?”

“Working on a new album right now and I’m hitting a wall. Can’t stop fighting with my label about the direction it’s going to go in. Figured playing in a place like here might remind me why this is supposed to be fun.”

That resonates with Jake, more than he’d like to admit as he thinks of his empty Word docs that taunt him even in his dreams.

“It’s been a long time since it’s been fun.”

“I might know something about that,” Jake concedes.

“Great,” Bradley says, suddenly bright again. “You can tell me all about it, at dinner.”

“Did you see it?”

Jake is getting really tired of Javy asking him this question.

“Yeah,” he answers, throat dry as he stares at the headline on his computer screen, phone with Javy on speaker tossed carelessly on his desk. “I wonder how he’s doing.”

Bradley Bradshaw has major fallout with longtime producer, Pete ‘Maverick’ Mitchell.

“Don’t,” Javy warns.

“What if he needs someone?”

“Then he can ask his fucking husband.”

“We’ve been on good terms since Harry’s last year.”

“It’s not a good idea and you know it.”

“What, we can’t be friends? Just because he’s my ex? That’s bullshit, I’m still friendly with Nathan. And he even works for me.”

“Jake,” Javy sighs, longsuffering. “Don’t tell yourself it’s the same thing.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t text him.”

“I won’t,” Jake promises, but he’s already pulling his phone towards him.

What’s one more lie?