Out of Sync: The Bound Series, #5

By Bronwyn Green

Everything has been out of sync since he walked away from James. Is it possible to make it right?

Ten years ago, Morgan Weaver walked away from everything he loved—his burgeoning career as a composer, his cello, and his best friend, James. Family obligations and guilt keep him tied to a job he hates, and his dreams have collected even more dust than his instrument.

James Shepherd was left reeling when Morgan abandoned not only their dreams of writing and performing together, but their friendship. James forged on to become an internationally known musician, but he's always felt Morgan's loss and has never been able to shake the feeling that he's responsible for the other man's choice to leave everything behind.

A simple request from Morgan's sister brings the men together in a way neither of them expected, and long-denied desire bubbles to the surface overwhelming them both. Knowing it's only temporary, Morgan finds himself lost in a haze of submission, finally able to experience being at James' mercy and determined to enjoy it while it lasts. James, however, has other plans and is equally determined to show Morgan he can have all he's ever wanted—including what they have together.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bronwyn Green
• Release date: Oct 25, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519911308

Book preview

Chapter Two

James Shepherd stared at Morgan’s shell-shocked expression. Christ, the man looked as if he hadn’t slept more than an hour or two a night for the last few years. But other than the purple smudges beneath his warm brown eyes, the years had been kind to his former musical partner. His black hair was a little longer, and James’ fingers itched to slide through the silky curls. The closely trimmed beard was new since the last time they’d seen one another.

Morgan stared at him as if he were a dinosaur that had wandered into Canary Wharf.

James opened his arms. What? No hug?

What are you doing here, Jamie?

James had forgotten how that soft-spoken voice and Welsh lilt had always affected him. It somehow managed to be equal parts soothing and arousing—a melodic contrast to his own North London working class speech.

Okaaaaaaaay. No hug, it is.

Morgan’s personal assistant looked between them, brimming with poorly disguised concern. Morgan met her gaze and frowned, checked his watch then turned back to James.

I’ve got fifteen minutes before I have to leave for a board meeting. Why don’t you come into my office so you can tell me why you’re here?

Wow. Not even a ‘good to see you’? Or maybe a ‘been awhile—how are you doing?’ He shook his head. Okay, Weaver, lead the way.

Morgan backed into his office and gestured for James to enter, closing the door behind him when he did. James scanned the room, noting the dark wood and darker leather furniture. The colors suited Morgan, but little else did—the style, the atmosphere, the job. But what the fuck did James know, anyway? They hadn’t seen each other for at least ten years.

Morgan dragged his hands though his hair then crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned against his desk, watching James almost warily. Why are you here?

The more important question was why the hell was Morgan here? But James was betting that topic wasn’t up for discussion. Well...since we’re obviously going to skip all the catching up stuff, I talked to your sister this morning.

Morgan’s lips tightened slightly, but he said nothing. Apparently, he had no interest in making anything remotely easier.

She asked me for both music and musician recommendations for her upcoming wedding. Imagine my surprise to hear that you refused to play for her.

Morgan checked his watch. You’ve got five minutes to get to the point. I need to be at a meeting, soon.

Fine. You want my point? Here: I think you’re an utter tosser for not pulling your shit together long enough to make your only sibling happy. On her fucking wedding day, no less.

Morgan straightened, color high on his cheeks. He always had flushed easily. First off, I haven’t seen you since we graduated, and you think it’s acceptable to show up—without calling—

James frowned. I seem to remember calling you plenty and getting no response. Would you have answered, this time? Returned my call?

—to reprimand me about my relationship with Tris? Morgan pushed on as if James hadn’t spoken, and he had the answer to his question. What the fuck do you know about it, anyway?

James took a step closer to him. More than you, I guess, since Tristan and I talk regularly.

Morgan tried to hide it, but James could tell his revelation had startled the other man.

Guess she never mentioned we’d kept in touch, huh? But none of that matters right this minute. What matters is you manning up and doing the right thing.

For the briefest moment, Morgan looked almost stricken, and a sliver of guilt lodged itself in James’ chest. Especially, because Tris had mentioned a whole lot more than her brother’s unwillingness to play at her wedding. But James would start here.

I can’t do this, Morgan muttered.

I know. You’ve got a meeting.

Morgan met his gaze, and the pain in his dark eyes almost took James’ breath away. No, I mean, I can’t do this. Can’t talk about playing for the wedding. Can’t play. At all.

James opened his mouth, but Morgan turned his back to him and began scooping up files off his desk, along with a tablet.

Look...why don’t you meet me for a drink later, and I’ll bring the sheet music for the sonata Tris wants. You can give it to whomever you find to play at the ceremony. He walked toward the door, having already dismissed James.

Going out for a drink isn’t really going to work for me.

Morgan’s lips lifted in a wry smile. Right. Mobs of fans. Forgot. That must be a pain in the arse.

How about I bring takeaway to your place? We can talk about the music, then.

Morgan stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment—looking like a cross between a deer in the headlights and wolf studying its prey. Fine. I’ll be home by eight. He turned the handle.

Wait. What’s your address?

Fifty-nine thirty-three Broadwell.

James gawped at him. You’re still...in our old flat?

I assume you remember how to get there?

He nodded and watched his former roommate walk through the doorway, not sure how to process this new Morgan.

Close the door on your way out, yeah? he said over his shoulder.

Morgan had been more than his roommate. He’d been his musical partner, his collaborator, but more than anything, Morgan had been his friend. But so many things had gone wrong between then and now, they were nothing more than acquaintances. Though, he wasn’t even sure they were that.

James followed Morgan out the door into the reception area outside his office and pasted on his public-ready smile. In addition to Morgan’s PA, there were at least nine other people milling around the room, attempting to seem as though they belonged there. Word tended to get around fast. He was guessing he had Morgan’s PA to thank for that.

The woman in question approached him. Excuse me, Mr. Shepherd, but we’re all really big fans. There was a strange edge to her voice that he couldn’t quite identify. Would you mind signing a few autographs while you’re here?

He glanced up, feeling Morgan’s gaze on him from his spot by the bank of lifts. His expression was completely neutral. No one looking at the two of them, right now, would ever know that they’d ever shared anything more than eye contact. No one would ever know that, some nights, he still dreamed of the barely remembered taste of Morgan’s mouth and the feel of him melting against his own chest as he pulled Morgan close.

Morgan stepped into the lift, and the doors whooshed shut behind him.

Could you make it out to Beatrice?

James dragged his attention back to the situation at hand and took the pen and paper from the PA. Of course. He signed his name with a flourish, and she stared at him, shaking her head, a slightly bitter but amused smile lifting her lips. He glanced down at the name he’d just signed then back up at her, embarrassed horror dawning. "Bea. I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you."

He couldn’t believe he hadn’t. She’d been over to their flat often enough for study dates. And hadn’t that been a fabulous time—both of them lusting after the same man, and Morgan utterly oblivious to the seething undercurrents of desire and jealousy in the room?

She shrugged, her smile softening. No worries. It’s been a long time.

It had been a long time. He’d only seen her slightly more recently than he’d seen Morgan. And that was a memory he was better off not examining, at the moment—not when there was a room full of curious people, staring expectantly.

Bea gave him a quick hug. It’s good to see you, again.

Completely surprised, he returned the embrace then moved on to the next person shoving a piece of paper at him. The requisite selfies followed, and by the time he left Weaver Tower, he was ready to just lie down and sleep for a week.

Instead, he grabbed a cab and headed over to the King’s College campus. He had a few hours to kill before he was due at Morgan’s, and seeing him today had brought about a bigger wave of nostalgia than James would have imagined possible. The lure of their old haunts was impossible to resist.

Sunglasses on and collar turned up against the damp spring air, he wandered the pathways of the college, blending in with the rest of the student population as they scurried to and from classes. Unable to stop himself, he wandered into the music building. How many hours had he and Morgan spent here composing, practicing, planning their futures...

If James had known how their actual futures were going to play out, he would have spoken up sooner. Fought harder. But, instead of following their dream of becoming the world’s greatest string duo, Morgan was living a life he loathed—at least, according to his sister, he was. And James, he was selling out grand concert halls with his solo work and guesting with virtually any musical act he wanted.

And until he’d seen Morgan, today, he’d been fine with that. Until he’d seen Morgan, again, he’d been fine with a lot of things.

Jamie Shepard, is that you?

In spite of the sadness pulling at him, he smiled as he turned to face one of his former professors. Dr. Blanchard. How are you?

She frowned slightly. I’d be better if you remembered to call me Matilda. You have graduated, after all. Before he could respond, she asked, What are you doing here?

I’m in town for a wedding, and I had some time to kill, so I thought I’d check out the campus. See what’s changed.

I can’t speak to the rest of the university; you know I never leave my ivory tower. The woman rolled her eyes, her lips barely lifting into a smile. But I can show you what’s changed in the music building.

Somehow, at the end of the impromptu visit, he found he’d let Matilda talk him into returning the following Wednesday evening to visit the advanced musical studies class. Said it was his duty as one of their famous graduates.

King’s College certainly didn’t have the most prestigious music program in England, but it was the one he’d received a full scholarship from. In addition to the music program, it also had a business program, which was how Morgan had ended up there in both fields of study. Yet another compromise with his father.

Maybe when James saw Morgan later that evening, he could convince him to come to visit the advanced music class with him. Maybe seeing what he’d left behind would somehow motivate him to find some happiness in his future.

Chapter Three

Christ, it was half past eight already, and Morgan had told James to meet him at the top of the hour. He wondered if the other man was still there. Or if he’d bothered to come, at all. Morgan walked faster from the train stop. Though, maybe he should’ve rethought that plan. If he went slowly enough, maybe James would get bored and leave. And Morgan wouldn’t have to deal with him, at all.

He wouldn’t have to remember what it was like to live with him. To listen to him practice—to rehearse with him—filling their tiny flat with music. He wouldn’t have to remember what it was like to hear him bring home dates—to try to convince himself not to jack off to the sounds of them fucking, and failing every time. To try not to wish it was him James was pounding into.

Morgan scrubbed a hand over his face as he turned up the walk to his building. Why had he ever agreed to allow the man to come over? It had taken years to rid himself and the flat of all those memories. He had a feeling it would take next to nothing to bring them all rushing back, again. Probably no more than—he stopped dead and sniffed the air—the scent of Thai food in the hallway.

Rounding the corner, he spotted James leaning against the wall outside the door to Morgan’s flat. Sorry I’m late. Have you been waiting long?

James checked his watch. Less than ten minutes. I figured that not that much had changed, and you’d be late, so I took my time getting the food.

Morgan squinted at the bag James held. Did you actually go to Erb Thai?

I was feeling nostalgic. Hope you still like spring rolls and peanut curry. He grinned, and Morgan’s breath actually caught in his chest at the sight of James’ ridiculously perfect dimples. Dimples so deep and long they were more like crescent moons in his face when he smiled. And all Morgan wanted to know was what they felt like under his fingertips. Beneath his lips.

Shaking his head at himself more than anything else, he turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door. Sounds great. I’m starving, actually.

James followed him down the narrow hallway, past their bedrooms—well, his bedroom and James’ old room that was now a study—into the kitchen. James must have hit the switch on the way through because the room flooded with light.

Morgan glanced back at him, and James shrugged. Old habits, I guess. Morgan hung his suit coat over the back of a chair then grabbed a couple bottles of beer from the fridge.

C’mon. He gestured toward the living room. Might as well be comfortable. Though, having James anywhere in his vicinity was pretty much the opposite of comfortable.

Morgan settled in his usual spot on the couch, and James handed him a carton of food and took the chair opposite him, his gaze sliding across every detail in the room, taking everything in.

I can’t believe you’re still here, James said with a laugh. I guess with your position, I imagined you some place far more...posh.

Morgan’s lips quirked. Posh.

James’ gaze made another circuit of the room. At least, the décor and the furnishings have vastly improved since I was here last.

Morgan rested his ankle on his knee. I might not have wanted to give up the flat, but uni-chic furniture was something I was more than happy to part with.

James pulled his chopsticks from the paper wrapper and opened his carton and began lifting food to his lips. It was impossible to watch him eat and not imagine licking the small drop of curry sauce away from the corner of his mouth. As James reached for his bottle, Morgan had to look away. Busying himself with his own meal, he barely noticed that James had asked him a question.

So, why didn’t you move to someplace nicer? Someplace closer to your office?

Morgan chewed his food and took a swallow of beer then finally shrugged. I hate moving.

It was true. He did hate moving. He’d looked at plenty of other places—posh places, he supposed. But the truth was—this flat—the one he’d worked his arse off to afford because his parents refused to pay for it when he’d wanted to move out of the dorms—was home. It was the one place he’d felt he truly belonged. Maybe that sense of belonging was leftover from living here with James. Maybe it was just the feeling of having one thing he could truly call his own—one thing his family had nothing to do with. Maybe he just really did hate moving that much.

Once they’d finished eating and gotten the obligatory small talk out of the way, and once Morgan had gotten them each another beer, James leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his long fingers clasped loosely together.

Why won’t you play for your sister’s wedding?

Movements carefully controlled, Morgan set down his bottle on the table next to him. Not that it’s really any of your business, but we’ve discussed that.

You saying you ‘can’t’ isn’t a discussion.

Morgan dragged his hands through his hair. How is it that we can go ten years without seeing each other, and after an hour, you start interrogating me like you’ve never moved out?

James sat back at that. What, you’re pissed because we haven’t spoken in the last ten years? What was I supposed to do, Morgs? You wanted nothing to do with me after...that.

Morgan flushed, remembering the night he’d stormed out of the flat after telling James to leave. He remembered all the calls he’d ignored from him. All the texts. All the emails. And he remembered coming back, a week later, to a mostly empty set of rooms that felt like the life had been sucked out of them.

He grabbed the bottle and took another swallow of his beer. You’re here, now.

James frowned. Some things are worth fighting for.

Morgan opened his mouth, terrified and elated by James’ declaration.

Until he added, And your sister is one of those things.

Morgan set down his bottle and pushed to his feet. I’ll get the music. Do what you want with it.

Morgan, wait.

But he was already out of the room and heading toward the study. He turned on the light and walked to the filing cabinet in the corner. Squatting, he opened the bottom drawer and began rifling through the contents of all the folders.

That’s where you keep your music?

Pretty much, he answered without looking up.

Why’d you stop playing? James asked from the doorway, keeping his distance.

I didn’t have time, Morgan muttered. Still don’t.

When did that start?

Morgan pivoted on the balls of his feet. I’m sorry, but did I somehow give you the impression that I was in need of a therapy session?

You’re in need of something, James snapped. Therapy. A good shag—something.

Morgan finally found what he wanted and yanked it from the drawer then stood and shoved it closed with his foot. Stalking across the room, he thrust the folder at James. This is what you came for. Thanks for the food. I know you know your way out.

Morgs...

Look, I appreciate that you love my sister and want to help make her wedding day special. That’s fine. Do your part to make that happen, but leave me out of it.

Just so you know, James began. Tris had nothing to do with me contacting you. In fact, she expressly told me not to. So, don’t throw this in her lap. This was my mistake. Not hers.

Noted.

James stared at him, brilliant blue eyes bright with anger. I don’t know what the fuck happened to you, mate. But I miss the old Morgan. The one who used to compose some of the most beautiful music I’d ever heard. The one who had more talent than most of the of the London Philharmonic. Remember him? The one who actually cared about other people?

Yeah, Morgan remembered him, and he missed him, too.

Chapter Four

James was furious when he’d left Morgan’s flat the night before. He was furious when he’d sat down to run though the sonata for Tristan this morning. And he was furious, now, waiting with both cello and dinner outside Morgan’s door for him to get home.

And wasn’t that just the stupidest idea he’d ever come up with? For all he knew, Morgan was working even later than he’d worked the night before. Or had plans. Or a date. James’ stomach churned at that thought.

What the hell would he do if Morgan came up the stairs, with a guy in tow? Or a woman? James knew Morgan was gay, but he was so hell bent on denying all the other important parts of himself, maybe he was ignoring that, too.

James still vividly remembered the night Morgan hadn’t ignored it—hadn’t ignored him. The warm, sweetness of Morgan’s mouth, tinged with beer and curry. His