Trust & Consent: Trust & Consent, #2

Chapter One

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Another semester, another class and no hotties in the bunch. Raylan Greene sat back in his chair and opened his notebook. He never should’ve waited until the summer semester of his junior year at college to take the American History class, but his schedule always ended up so full. He’d finally found the time—in the hottest months of the year.

The pale blue paint flaked at the corners of the room and the desks had seen better days. Most of the table tops were decorated with names carved into the wooden surface. Everyone from Albert to Zach had left a mark.

Footsteps thumped in the hallway and the building buzzed with conversation. Some of the girls sat together and chattered. Two guys near the door argued about a comic book movie Raylan wanted to see, but hadn’t been to the theater to view. One of the guys sported a football jersey and regaled his friends with stories from the latest practice session.

Raylan glanced around the classroom at the various students. He recognized a couple of the guys from other classes, but none of the men in the room appealed to him. He groaned. He had to be one of the older students in the room and all because he hadn’t worked the class in during his freshman year.

He hadn’t been a freshman in a long time, but he felt like he’d been in the photography thread forever. The students in the photography division all knew each other. Once they’d paired off in romantic relationships, those who hadn’t found a partner didn’t really date the others. He’d gone out with a few guys, but none for a great length of time.

He’d just about given up hope when a young man strolled into the room. The guy quickened his pace and collapsed in the desk beside Raylan.

That was close. He plunked his books on the desk top. I had the wrong room assignment written down.

That can happen. Raylan smiled at his classmate. I’m Raylan.

Chase. He stuck out his hand. I’m not usually late.

You’re fine. We’ve got another five minutes. Professor Allemande walks at his own pace. Raylan studied Chase. He’d seen his share of good looking guys before, but something about Chase caught his attention. Maybe it was the shaggy hair hanging to his collar or the slightly bewildered look in his brown eyes, but Raylan wanted to photograph him. He preferred strong men, but not overly muscled. Chase seemed to fit the bill. Was he a hairy guy? A top? A bottom?

I feel so silly. Chase opened his notebook and shook his head. The wrong room number. I’ve been on this campus almost three years now. You’d think I’d check this stuff. He moved his guitar case to beneath his seat. A myriad of stickers decorated the worn faux leather surface of the case. If this gets in the way, tell me. I can’t control the thing sometimes.

Are those your bands? Or bands you’d like to play with? Raylan asked. He noticed Chase’s hands. He liked men with long hands and groomed fingernails. Chase had both. He wondered what if would feel like to twine their fingers together. Probably the same as holding hands with anyone else, he supposed.

Nah. The stickers cover the holes and dings in the case. I’ve had it since I was fifteen. He grinned and shrugged. I can’t get rid of the old girl.

Your case is a girl?

So is my guitar. Betty Lou. Chase smiled again. The dimple in his cheek deepened. That’s the closest I’m coming to holding a girl, so it works.

Ah. So Chase wasn’t gay. Damn. Raylan gripped his pen. Too bad. He liked Chase and in more than a platonic way.

The professor strolled into the classroom and clapped his hands.

Raylan sighed. Any conversation with Chase would have to wait until after class. He scribbled notes and worked hard to pay attention, but having Chase beside him messed with his concentration. Why did the hot guys have to be straight? Or not into kink?

Raylan added another line of notes to his page then titled the notebook. American History – 1850-1975, aka The Class with the Hot Straight Guy. He snorted to himself. If the professor or Chase saw what he’d written, they’d probably have a fit, but he didn’t care. He needed little things like the addition to the class title to amuse himself.

After forty-five minutes, the professor finished talking. He assigned a section of the book for homework reading then sashayed out of the room.

He doesn’t hold back or stick around, Chase muttered. What if you have a question?

You email him. Raylan tucked his books into his messenger bag. I had a friend who took this class last year. If Allemande actually stuck around for more than a minute after the session finished, it was a miracle. But I hear he’s quick with answers in email form. Maybe he’s not a people person?

Doesn’t sound like it. Chase shoved his things into his backpack. Would you mind if I got in touch with you? If I have questions or something?

Sure. Raylan scribbled his cell phone number on a piece of paper. Here you go. Ask away. I can’t guarantee I’ll have the answers, but I can try.

Chase scrawled his number on the front of a business card. This was the card from one of my bands. Derek insisted we have them. I’m not sure why. I never gave them out. He handed over the card. That’s my cell. Call or text.

I will.

If you’re interested, I’m playing down at the Last Drop Coffee Shop tonight. It’s just me and my guitar, but I can use all the audience I can get. It’s for a class. Chase picked at the stitching on his guitar case. We’re supposed to do a performance off campus. I’ve done plenty of them, but this one is for credit, not just experience or a few bucks. I’d love it if you came.

To fill the audience, Raylan said. Right?

I guess. Or just to see what I do. Chase shrugged. Maybe you could get something out of it, too. You’re a photography major, right? He nodded to the camera bag. I’m game to pose for free. I’ll pay your cover charge. Give the doorman my card with this on it and you’ll be fine. He scrawled a note onto another business card and handed it to Raylan.

Chase struck an odd bargain. Raylan held onto both cards. He didn’t need concert photographs for any of his classes, but he’d be damned if he’d pass up a chance to practice the kind of photography he loved—rock and roll photography. He loved the odd lighting and the challenge of capturing the musicians while they played their instruments.

I’ll try to be there. Raylan met Chase’s grin. Too bad the guy was straight. Too bad he wasn’t interested in hooking up, and what a shame. He held back as Chase wandered out of the classroom.

Raylan wished he’d had his camera at the ready. He’d have photographed the sway of Chase’s ass when he walked. The guy moved with grace, but little confidence—like he didn’t realize his own good looks. Some guys were like that, handsome but clueless. Was Chase that way? He wasn’t sure.

He’d attend the concert. Might as well. He wanted to see Chase in action and get those concert shots. Maybe he’d end up with something for his portfolio. Or spank bank. He snorted. The last time he’d photographed someone for his spank bank, he’d ended up fucking the guy. That wouldn’t happen with Chase.

Raylan headed across campus to the photography building. He had a few rolls of black and white film he wanted to process and go through before the weekend.

He dumped his things off in his locker then retrieved the film from his bag. After preparing the chemicals and unwinding the film in the dark, he loaded the film onto plastic reels. Once he had both canisters loaded into the tank and sealed, he stepped back into the dimly lit developing room. There, he added the chemicals and shook the metal container. The different stages of developing and printing the pictures appealed to him, but he especially liked the rhythmic turning of the small tank. The preciseness, combined with the rhythm lulled him. He could let his mind wander as he developed the film. He clicked the time on his watch and turned the tank according to the developing instructions. While he allowed the chemicals to work, he thought about Chase.

He hadn’t met anyone in a long time that tickled his fancy the way Chase did. He had just assumed Chase was gay and would be interested in hooking up. That wasn’t Raylan’s normal MO. He thought and planned. He got details and worked out what he’d do before he did it, not jump to conclusions.

So what was it about Chase? Why get so goofy over someone he’d just met? The hair. He wanted to run his fingers through Chase’s hair. To feel the softness and to tug on those silky strands while they had sex...that’s what he wanted. He had the feeling Chase would make a good nude subject, too. He had the right body structure to make the shadowing pop. He could just see them together—him posing Chase and setting