Rock Star (Dream Weaver #2)

by Su Williams

  Rough hands grasped my shirt front and slammed me against the rocks beneath me. “Don’t speak her name. You’ve no right. Do not speak her name.” Will thrust me against the rocks with each word. “S’blood I’ll see yours spilled or least your neck wrung as hers.”

  My world swam. I choked and gagged, trying to expel the dirt from my mouth and the grief from my heart. It was no use. Will was determined to kill me. Convinced I was responsible for the death of his beautiful sister.

  “Thomas. String him up.”

  I was lifted onto the back of a prancing anxious horse, and wobbled in the saddle as blood leaked down my cheeks. Dirty burlap stuck to my hair and face. Tiny squares of daylight filtered through. The horse skittered sideways as something hard struck my head. Then, I felt the rope forced over my head; the knot thrust down, hard as granite against my left ear.

  “Vengeance for my sister, James. The blood that gives me life, did not run within her veins. As she died at your hand, so will you die at mine.” With that, and a roar of fury, Will slapped the horse I was astride in the rear. The steed bolted from beneath me. I fell. The rope made a reverberating snap and I heard the crunch of bone echoing through me.

  Then…all was darkness.

  I awoke with a gasp and bolted upright, clutching my throat and heaving for air. Jesse sat up beside me in bed.

  “Hey Sweets. What’s wrong? Nightmare?”

  “Yeah.” I struggled to breathe. It had been so real, like I’d truly lived it. I’d smelled the coarse, dirty fabric, felt the blows, felt the heartache, felt my death—his death, the man that invaded my dreams. The man who hijacked me, forced me to relive his miserable life and even more miserable death.

  Chapter 5 Freak Like Me

  Sultry, pheromone-laden air washed the stage, drenching my skin, seducing my heart. The people loved us and made it difficult to not love them back. My hands ached to reach out and touch their skin, transfer the energy and exhilaration I felt within me; to touch all of them, as many as my hands could reach. Yvy’s anointed fingers conjured music fit for a god, and my very soul soared. Kylen drifted into one of his magical solos at a signal from me, and I disappeared into the wings of the stage. The crowd roared and chanted his name, while I made my escape from the bright lights and pounding beat. The spell of his fingers echoed through the corridors, chasing the patter of my running feet. I’d planned my route earlier, just in case the need arose. Somehow, I’d known tonight that it would. I drifted into the darkness and paused to let my eyes adjust, then wove my way between the bodies. Finally finding my perch, I flipped on the power to my mike. I’d only sung a couple of notes before the spotlight found me, to the delight of the already-incited crowd.

  Their bodies pressed around me, hands reaching to touch, to grasp, to convey their enthusiasm. I clutched hands, arms, shoulders—sang a line to this one and another line to that one. And we all fell deeper in love. I cruised through the crowd, touching as many as my hands could reach, hugging any who were bold enough to step within my embrace. I climbed over the railing, turning to sing to the audience further back, the ones in the ‘cheap seats’, who couldn’t afford the arena seating, couldn’t press themselves to the stage in hopes of clasping my hand, or catching a guitar pick. I reached, touching fingers, momentary presses, flesh to flesh, the slide of fingertip to fingertip—and then I saw him.

  Those eyes were unforgettable—obsidian blue, radiant in the spotlight. His hand extended to mine, his eyes forging a spell of their own upon my heart. He was stalking me. But I wasn’t afraid. I was mesmerized. I wanted him, wanted him to touch me. My fingers reached for his, our fingertips brushed with an electrical shock. I gasped…

  And then I was falling. I’d felt the fingers wrap round my leg, felt the sudden jerk that launched me backwards into the crowd and the spell was broken. The incredible eyes disappeared in the crowd. Realization struck. I’m falling. I’m falling and this is going to hurt. I laughed, it’s not the fall that kills you, it’s the sudden stop at the end that does it. And I did stop, abruptly, borne up in the hands of my loved ones. They caught me; strong, zealous, passionate hands that grasped and groped every inch of my body, passing me hand over hand, conveying me over their heads, back to the stage.

  I sat on the edge of the stage, swarmed with people, still reaching, still stroking, still clasping. I murmured my thanks and returned their caresses with appreciation. Finally, I dragged myself to my feet.

  “Well, that was fun!” I told the crowd a little unnerved, and they roared with delight. Unnerved or not, the show must go on. If Marley could perform with gunshot wounds, surely I could handle this. Yet, my eyes drifted often to the small landing at the front of the upper level, searching, seeking the elusive gaze that now followed me into my dreams.

  “He was here,” I told Kylen after the show. I lit a smoke with a deep draught and, very unlady like, blew it out my nose. “The guy—with the eyes.”

  “They’ve all got eyes, Em,” taunted Jack.

  “Shit!” was all Kylen said before he stuffed his hand in his skin-tight jeans and retrieved his phone from his pocket. He growled his protective mama bear growl as he stormed out the door, pressing his cell to his ear.

  Kylen was the overprotective big brother. This was going to get bad before it got better. I didn’t know how to explain to him that I wasn’t afraid of the guy, that I actually kinda wanted to meet him, even though he was a creepy stalker guy. There was just something so—familiar—about him. Something unassuming and safe. But, that’s what people thought about Bundy—until he killed them.

  I had to confess it was strange. He’d shown up at the Vail concert, the alley in Seattle and now this show. It was too much to be coincidence. And he always disappeared, like into thin air. Just poof—vanished, leaving only the lingering image of his sparkling ink-blue eyes.

  The image of them stirred something deep inside me, as though I’d known them but had forgotten. But how could I forget something that seemed so passionately important? How could I forget the face of a god? Or, at the least, the face of perfection? And why did his gaze follow me even into my sleep? Beckoning me, come? And why the hell did I think I could trust this man, this face, these eyes? What was the spell they conjured over my heart? That, in itself, was reason enough to stay away from him.

  * * *

  I wasn’t allowed to be alone out on the road anymore. Wherever I went, one of my guys went with me. Kylen called in a couple of extra roadies, big guys, with hams for biceps and lot of extra beef in places that made their bodies look deformed. They were a regular Rocky and Rambo, standing guard at the front of the stage, glaring ominously at anyone who pressed too close.

  “Look, Kylen,” I yelled at him, after a show one night. “Those two muscle-bound thugs of yours are pissing me off. The fans expect to get up close and personal, and your Brutuses out there won’t let them within 10 feet of the stage.”

  Kylen put his hands on my shoulders like placating a temperamental child. “They’re there to keep you safe, Em.”

  “They’re there to spoil my fun,” I retorted, with my arms folded hard against my chest, I gave a defiant stomp of my foot, and sounded every bit as recalcitrant as he was treating me.

  “Em…”

  “I’m warning you, Ky. Call off your goons. I won’t punish the majority because of the one.”

  Kylen’s shoulders sagged. “It’s your life, Em. I’m just trying to keep you safe.”

  “Move ‘em. Or else.” I didn’t know ‘what else’ but I’d think of something and he knew I would. Like an audience dive and surf.

  I knew fans could be crazy, even dangerous at times. The gig in Phoenix proved that, with someone yanking my feet out from under me. It was just over-exuberance. I doubt it was the fan’s intention to make to me fall. And the fans kept me safe. I’d heard stories from other bands about lunatic fans that made their way onto the stage. One of the girls from The Belles told me about a fan who raided the stage to dance with her a
nd then bit her in the breast. Just chomp. No reason. I’d had fans sneak past security and come stand beside me in the middle of a song, so they could take a selfie with me on their cell phone. It was all in good fun. Usually no one got hurt, well, except maybe the guitarist with teeth marks on her boob.

  I promised Kylen and the rest of the guys not to crowd surf for a while, to stay on stage like a good little rocker, to be careful. No more audience recon. As long as the Stallone twins stayed in the wings and left my ‘peeps’ alone.

  * * *

  “Check one. Check one,” I intoned into the mike. My voice echoed off the wall and back into my face. The floods were warm but not the fevered swelter that washed over me during a show. The quiet felt eerie. Empty. Jack banged out a fill on the drums, messing around, getting sound levels. Kylen picked a soulful song that we’d been working on in a park in Phoenix the day before.

  The Rambo twins, both with double-barreled guns, hovered at the foot of the stage. I shot a glare at them, though I shouldn’t. They were only doing their jobs. They couldn’t help it that their job got in the way of my fun. I wanted to kick the smartass scowls off their smartass faces, but Kylen would kick my smart ass if I did.

  The venue stank of stale hazer smoke and sweat but it lacked the atmosphere of the press of bodies, the palpable love shoved onto the stage by riotous fans. Kylen and the Rambos just didn’t understand my need for contact with the people. It was a fix I craved as desperately as any drug addict jonesed for a drug. The press of flesh sent adrenalin coursing through my veins. My heart raced with euphoria, my soul set free from the bondages of life.

  So what that there was a creepy stalker guy showing up at all our shows. He hadn’t done anything to me. Just looked. Never touched. And something within those incredible eyes hypnotized me. But was it a gossamer web that drew me into the spider’s web, a ploy to capture and consume me? Somewhere deep inside myself, a war raged. Half of me wanted to let the stranger reel me in; wanted to give in to the magnetism of his eyes. The other half feared what the stranger might mean, what he might do if I allowed him to ensnare me.

  We hit Portland like whirlwind and did a gig at the Roseland. The standing room only arena surged with adrenaline and bouncing boobs. The crowd pressed the stage, head-banging and hammering the stage floor at our feet. Geezus, they were riled tonight. One especially voluptuous woman raised a double shot of something amber for me to drink. I sang my way to that side of the stage, but as I approached, she lowered the drink and placed it in her cavernous cleavage and gave me a little shimmy. I flicked a look back at Drey, as he hammered on his bass and gestured him forward.

  “All yours, Sweet cheeks!” he bellowed.

  Aw, what the hell! I roamed my hands down body and gave this girl her own personal show. Her scream pierced the roar of the crowd, as I stripped out of my t-shirt and tossed it to her. There was no way in hell those tits were gonna fit into my small shirt, but I had no doubt she’d give it go. I dropped to my knees and stalked her, lithe and lupine. Amber liquid jostled and splashed, and evaporated into that heaving canyon. She pressed her chest closer in offering. I leaned down and withdrew the little plastic cup with my teeth. Surprisingly, there was still more than a shot left. I raised the glass to the woman, who threw kisses at me. The Fireball seared my throat as I threw back the first swig and continued singing.

  As we ended the bridge and launched into the final chorus of the song, I felt my heart pull to the opposite side of the stage. In the crowd, he was there. My wanted stalker. His gaze lured me in. His lips moved in concert with mine, singing the words in unison. I drew closer but Kylen gripped my arm and yelled at me over the music.

  “Lizzy! What are you doing?”

  “I was just…he’s…” My world felt crowded and fragile. Like the stranger was home and all else was false. I felt my eyes narrow at Kylen. “What did you call me?”

  “Emari, get a grip!” he bellowed.

  I wrenched my arm from his grasp. “It’s fine. Trust me.”

  I sank to my knees before my stalker; gave my second private concert of the night. Drawing the drink to my lips, I ran my tongue around the rim, gathering the sweetness. Then, I tipped the cup to the strangers lips and drained it into his eager mouth. A drop of liquor sparked on his lower lip, a beacon calling me home. My heart yearned to taste his mouth, to lick the remnants from his lips. As our faces grew closer, the rest of the band gave a simultaneous hiccup and hit a discordant chord. And still, my mouth longed for his, even as the music came to a crumbling end.

  Jacks drums clattered to halt with the clash of a cymbal as it hit the floor and the bass drum kicker slammed home. Drey’s bass thundered one last awkward note that reverberated around the theater, while Kylen’s guitar chirped out in alarm. Yvy, the consummate professional played on alone, then slowly faded out as she realized only she continued to play.

  I refused to be moved by any of it, despite the dissonant wrongness of the sounds around me. Confusion tugged at the fringes of my logic. But I had to kiss those lips; had to taste that warm sweet mouth. Had to. The only necessity left in my tiny universe—this overwhelming urge to kiss this man. No lips ever tasted better. Sweet. Warm. Gentle. Electricity arced from his lips to mine, as his polarity reeled me in.

  The grumble of the crowd peaked with discontent, then faded to the background and finally disintegrated into silence. And the silence was wrong. As much as I wanted to submit to his gravitational pull, the strangeness of this silence dragged me away from his supercharged snare. I glanced up to see the arena pixelate around me, the audience turned to dust and blow away in the wind. My eyes narrowed and the tightness of confusion corrugated between my brows. If the audience vanished, where was the band? The silence slashed fear through my chest, but I had to know. I turned to face the stage and found only darkness and Cuimhnigh gone. The arena was a silent void, and as I turned again to find the stranger, even he had vanished.

  Chapter 6 Love Bites (So Do I)

  Quiet. Warm. Safe. The smell of new carpet, new drywall filtered into my sleep. It felt homey; but home was old and comfortable, saturated with the scent of decades of life permeating the walls. I relaxed in the warmth, content, for the moment, to lay utterly relaxed in this place, halfway between awake and asleep, where there were no demands on my body or soul. Slowly, I drifted fully awake. I stretched and yawned, then opened my eyes. There was no band. No stage. Just silence. Silence, and this warm quiet room in an unfamiliar place.

  What band? It was all a dream, right? But it felt so real, so right. I cradled my head in my hands, massaging the memories in my brain. I shook my head, rattled my thoughts, so maybe gravity could pull them back to their places. Two realities warred inside my brain; some forgotten reality and a vivid fantasy life. I pressed my fingers to the deep creases on my brow. Okay. I am Emari Sweet. Check. And there my list crumbled. Was I the front man for a band? Or was that a dream? But how could a dream be so lucid? I rewound my memories like an old 8mil. film to the last memory that felt real. I remembered driving to a home, pulled by an invisible thread. My car slid into a ditch, yet a magnetic force lured me on. There was a house, somehow familiar and yet forgotten. My fist cracked and crumbled like a frozen polyalloy Terminator as I rapped on the door. I wanted flee. I wanted to stay—until dark chocolate eyes scanned my face; warmth prickled against my frigid cheeks; strong hands pulled me inside where I was faced with fear and familiarity.

  This life of a rock star warmed my thoughts, so real—and illusive. It was a life I loved, but a life that was not my own. The room around me was dim, windowless, lit only by a torchiere lamp in the corner that spouted amber beams across the ceiling. The curves of the recumbent chair matched and supported my own. The walls were barren, painted dull matte beige, devoid of color and vitality. I wondered, momentarily, if this was the psych ward up at Sacred Heart. This was the kind of furniture Adrian, my quasi-uncle and therapist, would have in his office. A large square ottoman was pulled up to the side of
my chair as though someone had been sitting at my side. Comforting? Or interrogating?

  I slung my legs to the side of the chair and stood on weak, wobbly legs. I took in my surroundings more fully. For all intents, it appeared to be a home recording studio, acoustical and sound proofed. But what kinds of sounds were they hiding? My screams for help? No guitars leaned on stands, no drum set in the corner, no recording equipment. No sound board, or mikes, or bundles of patch cords or stacks of monitors. Just me and my loony bin chair.

  My gaze ranged the walls to the door. It was shut, holding the outside world at bay—or perhaps holding me in. Relief and panic clashed inside me. Would the door be unlocked? With silent, tentative steps, I slunk to the door and curled my fingers around the cold metal knob that shifted only a fraction of an inch and stuck. My heart surged with anger. I will not be made a prisoner. With a quiet snarl of defiance, I wrenched the knob and it yielded to my demand. I only needed a crack to peek out at what was beyond; I held my breath, and listened. Nothing but stillness and more quiet seeped through the gap, though I was certain the pounding of my heart boomed loud enough to be heard by anyone nearby. The room was scantly decorated with a couple of arcade-style video games and an ancient Pinball Wizard game. A Snooker table, with a beautiful stained-glass hanging lamp above it, served as the centerpiece of the room. This place was getting stranger by the moment. Who kept an arcade in their home? Or was this even a house?

  Lithe as a serpent, I slithered around a corner and slunk up the stairs. The third stair from the top popped like a gun blast in the quiet stairwell, and I froze, sucked in my breath, and prepared for confrontation. But none came. Only more silence challenged me. I slowly released my breath, before I turned giddy from lack of oxygen; then crouched and peeked around the corners in both directions. Muted daylight flooded this level. To my right, the stairs continued up to another level; beside that, a closed door. At the end of the short hall were what looked like closet doors, and across from that another closed door of blonde cedar with polished brass fixtures. In front of me and a couple feet to my left, was a long wall with two closed doors. The wall was covered with pictures that I couldn’t quite make out. The closest photo to me vaguely resembled an old sepia photograph of two bodies hanging on a gallows. I shuddered at the macabre thought. Who in their right mind would display pictures of death on their walls? The ghost of a memory tickled inside my brain as though I did know someone who just might enjoy something so dark and sinister. That someone with dark chocolate eyes. But I shook away the thought, and returned my attention to the room before me. A varnished cedar railing ran the length of the hall on the left side and at the end I could see a door to the outside world.