Always Theirs: A Male/Male/Male Menage Rockstar Romance (The Always Series Book 6) Read online

  Always Theirs

  A MMM Threesome Romance

  J.P. James

  Contents

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  Also by J.P. James

  About This Book

  1. Fyre

  2. Jordan

  3. Fyre

  4. Jameson

  5. Fyre

  6. Jordan

  7. Fyre

  8. Jameson

  9. Fyre

  10. Jordan

  11. Fyre

  12. Jameson

  13. Fyre

  14. Jordan

  15. Fyre

  16. Jameson

  17. Fyre

  18. Jordan

  19. Fyre

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek: Always Ours

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  About the Author

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  Also by J.P. James

  The Always Series

  Always Ours

  Always Yours

  Always Mine

  Always His

  Always Desire

  The Loving Series

  Filthy Love

  The Chasing Series

  Chasing Fate

  About This Book

  My new bodyguards will protect me from my stalker, but who will save me from a broken heart?

  Fyre:

  I’ve been a teen pop idol since I was fifteen, and being famous has pros and cons. A pro? The adulation from my fans. A con? The adulation from my fans. I’m being stalked, and my manager insists that I hire protection: Jameson and Jordan Jones, two brawny FDNY firefighters who moonlight as bodyguards.

  The problem is that Jamie and Jordy are so magnetic that I can’t focus on my songwriting. I thought all I wanted to do was to live free and make music, but suddenly I’m not so sure when love is on the line. Throw in the fact that my stalker turns out to be a queer teen, and I don’t know what to do anymore. Jamie, Jordy and I support LGBTQ+ rights, but what do we do when our stalker is actually one of us? How do we fight back without undermining the cause?

  Jordan:

  My brother and I took a security gig to make a little cash on the side. We thought Fyre Connell would be an entitled brat, but the man is vulnerable, sensitive, and longing for something more. He’s been famous for so long, and living his life on social media is wearing him thin. But when we catch a queer teen making trouble, it throws our relationship into a spiral. Will Fyre punish the boy for jeopardizing his career? Or is there another solution that satisfies our need for justice, without undermining our commitment to the cause? Even more, how do we move forward as three men who are passionate for one another without setting off alarms the world over, while also respecting our true selves?

  **Always Theirs is a full-length MMM novel with a HFN/HEA and no cliffhangers.**

  1

  Fyre

  “I have one last song before we wrap up the evening. This is ‘Crash and Burn,’” I announce.

  The Hulu Theater is small compared to the rest of Madison Square Garden, but it’s the perfect size for an exclusive concert. It’s intimate … if a room full of 5,600 screaming fans can be considered intimate. This crowd is different from my other shows. These are the fans who downloaded my new app, “Fyre,” and they subscribe for premium access to music, videos, promos, and merch. They call themselves “Fyreflies” and I love every one of them.

  The Fyreflies jump on their feet the second the music starts. “Crash and Burn” is the hit song off my latest album Hardships, and it’s my favorite song to end a show. Most of my music is emo-pop, but this one leans into my electro-pop and electronic influences more than the others. Everyone, men and women, sings along, belting out every word as if they’re a superstar. I swear the energy in the room could cause a power outage in Times Square.

  With the last line of the song, the room erupts in applause. It’s a standing ovation as I hold the mic to my heart, bowing and thanking my fans for their unwavering support. It’s these moments, when I’m drenched in sweat, my makeup barely holding itself together, that I know why I love what I do. I connect with total strangers through music, and through our shared love of language and expression. I try to surround myself with beauty, and there are few things as beautiful as being on stage, watching the audience fall in love with my music.

  “I know I said that was the last song,” I say, catching my breath from the dance hit. “But I have a song to tease, just for you.”

  The audience explodes with cheers and applause.

  Truthfully, to call the song “unfinished” would be an understatement. I’ve barely had any studio time to flesh it out, but it’s enough material to perform. It’s mostly acoustic for now, so I take the stool that’s been idle next to the mic stand and sit for the first time tonight. I look out into the crowd, unsure what they’ll think of the new track, but hopeful that they’ll support me no matter what.

  “I’m amazing,” Joan gushes about herself. She steps back and lets me inspect the touch ups in the mirror.

  “I’ll say,” I agree, taking in the fresh coat of eyeshadow and eyeliner. “I don’t look a day over 18.”

  Joan laughs, shoving my arm for good measure. Joan is one of the only people I trust with my makeup. I don’t always wear this stuff, but it’s a staple when I perform and especially when I go out like tonight. There’s a special post-party, and I’m already late.

  “So, do you think you’ll find anyone special tonight?” she teases, packing up her brushes and palettes with finesse.

  “Fat chance,” I say. I stand and stretch, the endorphins long gone as the familiar aches and pains of a live show rear their ugly heads. I’m only 25, but with my backaches and the blisters under my feet, I sometimes feel middle-aged. Touring definitely takes its toll.

  “Oh, come on. I’m a single mother in my forties. I don’t want to hear any whining from you,” she says.

  I can’t argue with that logic. “Still, I don’t think anyone will surprise me tonight.”

  “You never know. Mr. Right could be right around the corner,” she says with a wink.

  Fat chance. I kiss her goodbye, weaving my way through the corridors.

  “Wait up, Fyre,” comes a gruff, too familiar voice behind me.

  “Hey, Rusty,” I sing as I spin on the spot.

  Rusty is our tour manager. He looks like a mix between a train conductor and a rock star, if that makes any sense at all. Rusty doesn’t make much sense to me most days, and I spend almost every day of the tour with him.

  “We adjusted the lighting for tonight’s show. Did it bother you at all? I might change it up for the rest of the tour,” he rambles on, before going into a long-winded story about how purple light can give you cancer.

  “The lighting was great, Rusty,” I cut him off before he talks my ears off. “I’ll take my risks with the cancer lights.”

  “Suit yourself,” he mumbles as he walks back towards the stage.

  I laugh quietly as he walks away. He’s strange, but he always keeps me on my toes. For that, I like to keep him around.

  I reach the door where my agent said a town car would be waiting for me. Sure enough, the all-black, tinted vehicle sits idly by the building. The driver steps out the second the theater doors close behind me.

  “Mr. Connell, good evening. My name is Greg, and I’ll be your driver this evening,” he says.

  “Thanks, Greg. I appreciate it.�
��

  There’s a hint of a smile on his face, but if I called him out on it Greg would deny, deny, deny. An old-school guy, he’s been driving high-profile celebrities and businessmen for years, and he isn’t used to any of them acknowledging him as a human being. I may be young, but I refuse to fall into the trappings of other clueless young stars.

  The hotel is only a half mile away from the venue. The fact that I’m even in a car is hilarious. It’s a ten-minute walk, but my agent insists on a car, and I’m not one to complain. Plus, any amount of time to sit in peace and quiet is wholeheartedly welcome. Greg has the Metropolitan Opera radio station on, and I recognize it because I play this station in the background when I write new music. Even though I write pop, something about the Met always calms my mind, and then the words start to fly.

  I close my eyes, letting my mind wander as I bask in my own private opera box, when the car pulls up to the Kimpton Hotel Eventi.

  “Thanks Greg,” I rasp, my voice thick and groggy. The music was definitely lulling me to sleep.

  “Anytime, Mr. Connell,” he says with a nod.

  Greg steps out and opens the door for me. I tip well, and it’s the second time his face betrays him with a smile.

  “Strikingly handsome and vulnerable pop sensation Fyre Connell,” says a familiar, low voice in front of me.

  I watch as Greg pulls into the street, and then turn to face the suited up hack by the entrance. He’s smirking at me, holding the latest Rolling Stone, and smacking it against his leg.

  “Fyre is more than a flaming hot singer. Underneath his smoldering exterior is a sensitive soul,” he continues to quote.

  “Shut up, Damon,” I tell him.

  Damon McAllister has been my agent for a few years now. We used to be strictly professional, only ever talking about my career and maybe the weather if we felt bold. But he’s seen me grow up, he feels like my much older brother, and he likes to tease me when a particularly sappy interview pops up.

  “This guy must have been on his hands and knees in front of you,” he jokes. I shove him as I step close, but then we instinctively pull each other in for a hug.

  “Get your head out of the gutter,” I beg before we step into the lobby.

  Damon ushers me through the hotel towards the Big Screen Plaza. It looks like a courtyard out of a sci-fi movie, complete with projectors and screens dotting the grounds. It’s the ideal space for multimedia installations, so when Damon insisted on a party, I begged him to host it here.

  “This was a great choice,” he tells me as we enter the yard.

  Although the performance tonight was for my diehard Fyreflies, the after-party is for the who’s who of the industry. A few of my label mates are here, along with their agents and friends, plus producers, songwriters, engineers, and executives looking to schmooze.

  “Told you,” I smirk at Damon. It’s then that the bulk of the crowd recognizes us … well, me, and there’s an impromptu round of applause for tonight’s performance.

  I mouth, “Thank you,” to everyone I can, shaking hands and greeting countless faces as Damon ushers us to the open bar. Once I take that first sip of my martini, I let myself take a deep breath and drink in the atmosphere surrounding us. People have gone back to their conversations, letting Damon and me catch up on what they assume are very important agent-client negotiations.

  “See any guys you like?” asks Damon, sipping his whiskey.

  I roll my eyes with as much flourish as possible, but then let my eyes sweep over the crowd ahead of us.

  There are hot guys here. I couldn’t deny it even if I wanted to. One of the songwriters, Eddie, looks especially appetizing. I worked with him two albums ago. Back then, he barely knew how to layer. Right now, however, he’s sporting a muscle-fit white long-sleeve with a green bomber jacket.

  “Eddie grew up,” I admit, nearly drooling. Damon’s head turns to find him, and he nods approvingly, and takes another sip.

  “Why don’t you go for it? You should let off steam where you can,” Damon tells me.

  Before I can consider his advice, Eddie takes out his phone. He preens his blonde hair and snaps off about thirty selfies before I can blink twice. He then walks towards a group of guys and girls, all preening and snapping their own selfies, and adds to the nauseating supply of egomaniacs.

  “I’m a singer, and even I don’t take that many selfies,” I whine.

  “You aren’t into guys who can appreciate their own looks?” Damon teases again, calling my past relationships into question.

  “I don’t want to buy into the thirst traps any more. I’m not looking for a DM. I’m looking for a real connection. Don’t tell me you’re into narcissistic guys,” I tease.

  I’m only joking. Damon’s never indicated anything but hetero straight guy to me, but he chokes on the last of his drink. It’s nice to know that I can still throw him off with my relentless teasing.

  “Relax, Damon. No one here is good enough for the guy who got me my first recording deal,” I remind him.

  He orders another whiskey. His grin tells me that he appreciates the reminder though. He clears his throat, looking out again at the crowd.

  “Speaking of DM’s, you should snap a few photos and videos tonight. Your social media has been pretty quiet lately,” he says more assured than before.

  I groan, loud enough that Damon tries to shush me.

  “What happened to relaxing? I’ve been posting non-stop to the Fyre app. Can’t I step away from Instagram for a night?” I plead.

  Damon fixes me with a serious look. “Do you think the Kardashians take a night off of social media?”

  I have most of my drink left and choose this moment to down it entirely and order another. Damon follows my gaze as I watch the art installations on screen.

  “I posted last week about the art for the party,” I remind him, gesturing towards the screens throughout the courtyard.

  “I know,” Damon replies.

  “I found these great queer artists, featured them on my profile, and now their work is on display for hundreds of people to enjoy. Isn’t that enough?” I complain, wanting him to hear the tiredness in my voice.

  Damon knows by now that I’m more than just a musician. I’m committed to queer success, whatever form that takes, and if my star power allows me to feature other artists, then that’s what I’m going to do. Why can’t this be enough?

  “People love that, trust me, but they also love seeing you. They want to see you looking sexy, at a party, enjoying your life. People want to live vicariously through you,” he insists.

  It should feel like a compliment, but right now, I’m just too tired. Sometimes the grind of this lifestyle gets to me.

  “I’m sick of it, Damon. Every time I show people my real life on Instagram, everything feels less … real,” I tell him.

  “Your news feed isn’t meant to be real life. It’s the fantasy people want to see,” he cajoles. He drinks half his second whiskey in one gulp.

  “I’m not a Kardashian,” I remind him.

  “No, but I think you could create your own billion-dollar empire if you tried as hard as they do, Fyre,” he says. It isn’t harsh or judgmental. I know Damon wants what’s best for me. He wants me to reach as many people as possible, and thinks social media is the ticket.

  “I’m not sure what I’d do with all that exposure. I have money, I have success, and I have fame, but if I live my life any more openly, I wouldn’t have a life at all.”

  Damon takes a deep breath, and sets his now empty glass down at the bar. I know this version well enough by now. He knows this conversation isn’t going anywhere tonight, so he gives up. His empty glass is his white flag of surrender.

  “Think about it. That’s all I want,” he finishes, with a renewed smile on his lips.

  His hand comes up and squeezes my shoulder, and I lean into the assured touch. This guy can be gruff, and he’s a bull shark when it comes to contract negotiations, but I know he’s looking out
for me too.

  “I still want you to let off some steam,” he tells me. I can see the mirth deepening his gaze.

  “No,” I deadpan.

  He eyes the crowd again, squinting as if he hasn’t found quiet the right … something. “Everyone can use a companion for a night,” he says with a wink.

  “Damon,” I plead, although my voice is flat. “If I wanted a guy, I could get one myself.”

  “So go. You know I’m right. You need to relax. Why not let someone help you with that?”

  Damon and I squint at one another now. I try to stifle a laugh but it’s no use. How this guy can frustrate me and make me laugh all at once is beyond me.

  Suddenly he gets up. He takes the last of my drink and downs it too, giving me a wicked look.

  “I have an idea. I’ll find you later,” he huffs, and then stalks off into the crowd.

  “Damon!” I call, but he disappears without a trace.

  I appreciate the antics, I do, but I can’t imagine myself actually sleeping with someone Damon propositions for me. It feels dirty. I don’t think I could go through with it, no matter how much he’s telling the truth.

  I’ve had my hookups, but I haven’t felt a genuine connection with someone in so long. With my schedule, I barely have time for a date. I can’t drag someone into this life, no matter how lonely I am. It’s another reminder that this life might not be for me, long term.