Slow Body Rock (Rockstar Romance)

by Nora Flite

  Chapter Five.

  Drezden

  My anger had abated by the time the empty car returned.

  In my wake, I left three cigarettes. I didn't know the last time I'd smoked so much.

  Everyone is pissing me off. Telling me what to do, what not to do... Staring out the window, I saw the sidewalks filled with wandering people. The show would be starting soon, fans were gathering to swarm the Fillmore.

  My breath fogged the glass. Idly, I pressed my finger and dragged it into a single letter:

  L.

  Lola Cooper. God damn Lola Cooper.

  I'd been miserable in my hotel room. Singing had come as a habit, warming my vocal cords and staying busy. The songs I sang were moody, turbulent things that couldn't break me away from my struggle with the girl I yearned for.

  Then, the first guitar notes had come.

  They'd taken my ability to speak. Just for a second, but that was ages to me. Lola had heard me, and in answer, she'd joined me with her own music. It had been a glorious thing, entwining our songs with only a wall between us.

  Always a wall. Always a wall of some kind.

  I wanted to tear every fucking wall down with my bare hands.

  I'd have to find a way.

  Security led me through the back of the building, down hallways more flooded with moving bodies than ever. I could hear music and knew that Porter and Colt were doing sound check. In the wide arena, my eyes fell on the rest of my band on the stage.

  Lola was poking her guitar, not noticing me watching. There were other bands in the room, as well as some VIP fans.

  A hand came down on my shoulder. “Drezden! There you are.” Brenda huffed, blowing hair from her eyes. “You almost missed sound check.”

  “Almost,” I agreed. Now everyone had seen me. I flashed a lazy smile. “Sorry. I'm here, let's get this done.”

  The expressions that rested on me varied. The drooling fans were one thing, but it was the emotionless stare from Sean Cooper that threw me off. So far on the tour, the other bands had barely had time for sound check. The fact that we were headlining meant we always went first.

  Bands that opened, like Barbed Fire, rarely got a check at all.

  So why is he here? I looked over at Lola. Because of her. Right?

  Climbing onto the stage, I gave Porter and Colt a quick pat on the arm. “Sorry about earlier. I just wanted some privacy.”

  “Hey, it's fine man.” Colt flipped a drumstick. “Let's do this.”

  Scooping up the microphone, I walked past Lola. I didn't know what to say, so I didn't try.

  I wondered if that would ever change.

  ****

  The Fillmore filled up, wall to wall faces and bodies. They shoved and shouted and begged for the show to go on. Barbed Fire had opened strong.

  I watched from backstage.

  Sean Cooper scratched his guitar. He tore it to pieces, a face he wanted to maim. The guy was good, better than he'd been two years ago. Hearing his sound, his style, I knew Lola had learned from him.

  My mouth twisted perversely at one fact; Lola was better.

  I wonder if he knows. Staring at his broad back, shoulders rippling with effort, I fought down a wicked grin. If he didn't know yet, he'd learn tonight.

  I gave the band credit. They opened well, riling the crowd in waves. The singer, a guy named Thomas, welcomed everyone. He said what he was contracted to, mentioning the bands that were playing. And, especially, highlighting me and Four and a Half Headstones.

  Standing off to the side, I didn't think anyone would see me. A gentle cough proved me wrong. Turning, I looked the brunette over. The crew had put her in dark, rippled skinny jeans and a top that strained over her chest. It was similar to the photos that had been taken for the promotions.

  That was clearly intentional.

  “Hey,” Lola mouthed; the music drowned her out. Her too-tall boot kicked at the floor. Could she walk in those? Blue eyes left me, leaving a hole in me as they did. She stared around at the brightly lit stage.

  I knew what she was here for. Leaning down, I spoke right in her ear; the way she gasped gave me a thrill. “They're playing really good.”

  Lola's nose nearly touched mine. “They always play really good! You've been on the tour with them, haven't you heard them before?”

  A hot flash crept up my neck. I hadn't listened to Barbed Fire. Normally, I did sound check then vanished until it was time for me. The other bands were just blurry noise in the background. I should have paid more attention. It didn't matter.

  The only band that needed to be on top was mine.

  “Sure,” I said quickly. “Listen. I'm going to grab some air, we go on after the next group. Want to come?”

  Brushing back her thick curls, she peeked longingly out at the stage. Barbed Fire had one more song; I knew her answer before she spoke. “Not yet.”

  Drums crashed, muffling my words. “You've heard them a million times. Why do you need to be here for this, too?”

  A crisp frost inched along her lips. It stuck them into an unmoving frown. “Because I want to be.”

  Without an argument, I just shrugged. “Fine.” My fingers touched my empty pack of cigarettes. “That's fine. I'll just—fine.” Even the small denials from Lola drove me insane.

  Shoving around her, I hurried for the side door. It led to a small, walled off patio. With a band on stage, the area was empty. The staff were too busy making sure everything was in working order to take a break.

  Slumping to the cold ground, I pursed my lips. My breath swirled, the closest thing to smoke I had. I should have saved one. Fuck. I'm smoking too much. It was so hard to hold back. Lola was my new addiction, and when she wouldn't allow me to have a hit, tobacco was all that remained.

  That, too, paled next to her.

  Scratching my hair, setting my scalp awake, I sighed.

  I'd told Lola earlier that I didn't get scared before shows anymore. I wished I was scared, though. Feeling anything but starvation for a woman who kept resisting me would have been great.

  Palming my forehead, I gazed up at the burning orange sky. An early moon dangled in the corner. The laugh that escaped me was unsettling. What the hell is this? What do I do with this fucking itch?

  I'd have ripped my flesh from my bones if it allowed me to feel normal again.

  Through the thick walls, the music died. Cheers replaced it; Barbed Fire had finished. It meant Lola would be celebrating with her brother.

  Perhaps, after we played, she would celebrate with me.

  It was a poisonous thought. It thrilled me, gave me a hope that was dangerous to have. In short time, everyone would see her. They'd bask in the fucking music made by Lola Cooper.

  The whole world would want to celebrate with her after this. What makes me more special? Shutting my eyes, I thought about the elevator. Then, the private show we'd played blindly through our hotel walls.

  To my shame, when I'd called out to her, I'd placed my forehead on the cool plaster. I imagined touching her, grinding the wall down and holding her close.

  I was a wreck. I kicked out Johnny so he wouldn't drag us all down.

  Now I'll be dragged to hell by this fucking woman instead.

  Filling my chest, I climbed to my feet.

  I had one more chance before someone else saw the wonderful girl for what she was and tried to steal her from my grasp.

  Tonight was Lola's first show. She'd be excited—no—ecstatic about it all. I could see her glowing cheeks and glimmering eyes in my head.

  In the heat of her joy and pride, something I would be the cause of... there would lie my chance.

  My last opportunity.

  Tonight, there would be an afterparty.

  ****

  The crowd was screaming for blood.

  Luckily, I was ready to empty my veins.

  Everyone in the Fillmore was at peak levels. They'd been waiting for us, Four and a Half Headstones.

  Well, we had arriv
ed.

  Each of us walked onto the stage, and each time, the screams grew wilder; demanding. They knew us by face and title. Lola wasn't free of that any longer.

  Looking out over the ocean of blurry faces, I glimpsed signs toting her name. These were our fans, and they were ready to judge us.

  A flicker of worry stalled my heart.

  If Lola played poorly, they would not be kind.

  She stood to the side, purple stratocaster at the ready. It was her armor; she would need it. Lola looked at me, a silent cry for strength. I wanted to give it to her, but all I could do was smile with a confidence I worked to summon.

  I wanted us to please our fans. I didn't want to lose Lola to their love.

  That was something I—just I—felt a claim to.

  Wait, shit. Love? Am I seriously calling it—stop. Focus. I grabbed the microphone, throttled it like it was my wandering brain. This is not the time.

  You have a show to put on.

  “Hey there Denver.” I pushed the mic to my lips, all sugar and velvet in my tone. As I expected, the crowd exploded in a roar. It was unadulterated energy, a drug that ruled my veins.

  I needed more.

  “You know,” I said, walking across the wide stage. “This is our first time playing at the Fillmore.” More noise, I waited for them to calm. “But it isn't the first time I've been here.” A sound, curiosity and excitement, rolled over the sea.

  It was exactly what I wanted.

  Turning, I found Lola watching me. I'd never seen her eyes so big. “I came when I was a kid. And you know, back then? All I could think was that someday, maybe I'd make it here.” My stare wandered over the arena. “Maybe I'd get to play.” One, two, let them breathe. The strained patience was overwhelming, but this wasn't my first rodeo.

  Timing was everything.

  I shook my head. “Well. Here I am. Guess it's time to do what I wished to back then...” With a giant smile that flashed all my teeth, I winked. “Bring the fucking place to its knees.”

  That was it. The crowd was done.

  In the canvas of the stage—my stage—clean drum taps signaled the beginning. Colt primed the air for our art, silencing the audience to a rumble. My mouth tasted like adrenalin mixed with cotton candy; everything tingled.

  This was my first love, music. Lola stood at the ready, stroking her strings. This. This will replace the void she's created. She smiled at me, fucking smiled...

  And I knew it wasn't true.

  Into the mic, I roared as only a man fallen to pieces could. I was held together by emotion; fragile and ghastly at the same time. Caught in my blast, the world would be destroyed. I'd revel and dance in the fucking ashes.

  But, like glass, colliding with something stronger would be my annihilation.

  Singing the words of Tuesday Left Behind, we showed the crowd who we were. Four and a Half Headstones had changed when we lost Johnny Muse. We sounded better than we had in months.

  I should have kicked him out sooner.

  If I had, would I have ever met Lola Cooper?

  She punched her guitar, eliciting notes that turned me inside out. The people felt it, too; they became nothing but tooth-filled mouths that begged for more. They wouldn't lynch her. They knew it. They all fucking knew what I did.

  Lola was god damn amazing.

  Tonight, just hold on till tonight. I wouldn't lose her to them. I couldn't bare that.

  Every song merged together for me. They made a map that took the audience through a world of smoke, charcoal and rust. They tasted our enthusiasm, reveled in every lyric like I'd written it just for them. By our last song, I was panting. Sweat turned my skin to bronze; shiny and new.

  The back of my shirt was soaked through. The front, well. The eyes of every girl in the first row says it all. “Listen up,” I whispered into the mic. Still I boomed, calling them to order. “This our last song.” I let the cries of sadness die. “It's my favorite. Maybe yours, too.”

  Porter and Colt summoned the first notes that heralded No More Stars.

  Bathing in the cheers, I stalked across the stage. Lola met my eyes. She was glowing, lips puckered. Everything in her face, her aura, made me think of sex. I wanted to grab her, kiss her harder than I had in the elevator.

  The gravity between us tugged. I saw it, how her joy stumbled. She wasn't angry. It wasn't the cold wall of rejection. With the heat of our momentum, the music sinking into both our souls...

  Lola shivered with lust.

  Fuck. Fucking hell.

  Pouring that voracious need into my voice, I belted out the words to No More Stars. She followed me down, rampaging over her strings. Nothing could stop us; none of us.

  Four and a Half Headstones was whole.

  Once I had Lola...

  I would be whole, too.

  Chapter Six.

  Lola

  I'd never felt more alive.

  Perspiration ran down my sternum, the backs of my knees were taut as elastic. I thought, if I tried, I could have jumped straight up and never come down.

  This was what playing music was all about.

  Laughing, crying, none of it mattered; none of it would have helped. I was a bundle of nerves ready to explode. Or, perhaps I had exploded. My ears were ringing, the powder keg of my mind leaving fragments that coated the one word in my skull.

  Rockstar.

  I was a fucking rockstar.

  Standing backstage or in a crowd during shows, I thought I knew what it would be like to play in front of so many people. I thought I knew. I didn't have a clue.

  Drezden pranced for them, he stormed and kicked and screamed. Veins stood out on his throat. The insides of his forearms became trails, rippling while he strangled the mic. In his element, he was more beautiful than ever.

  I'd still been worried I'd fumble. Something had changed; the concentrated essence of his voice wasn't aimed at me. Standing back where I was, I was spared his attack.

  The crowd took every hit.

  The ending notes of No More Stars faded in my ears. No, not yet. I'm not done yet. On a whim, I tangled up my strings and extended the music. It was spontaneous, but the fans wailed for more. Next to me, Porter and Colt went silent. Abruptly, I was performing a guitar solo.

  I met Drezden's gaze. Like that day, when I'd auditioned, I felt the pull from him. This was the man who turned me inside out. He felt his way into me with just his eyes. Drezden didn't need anything else to touch that place deep down.

  Quaking in my vinyl boots, I let my guitar go; it hung from the strap.

  Dead silence was swallowed by the black hole of the Fillmore. It was as if every single person there was making as much noise as they could.

  They crowed for an encore, but someone was leading me off stage. Without thinking, I ripped my arm away. I didn't want to go anywhere! This was my home, my life, and every nerve begged to keep me standing in the worship of—

  “Lola,” Sean said, teeth glinting. “Lola! Holy shit! You were amazing!”

  I shoved him backwards with my hug. Together, we stumbled backstage, away from the blinding lights. “Sean! Sean, oh my god! Did you see? Did you see that!?”

  We were jumping, a mess of shouts that kept building with excitement. What we said didn't matter. Only our feelings counted.

  Gripping my shoulders, he gave me a shake that rattled my teeth. “How did you get so good?”

  Feeling cocky, I let myself smirk. “I was always that good.”

  Sean's forehead wrinkled. My gut said I'd messed up, until I noticed he was looking just past me. Turning, I stepped aside and found Drezden in arm's reach. “She is really good,” the singer said. Reaching out, he offered his hand to my brother. “Long time no see.”

  “Well.” Sean linked his fingers, joined the handshake. “Not exactly. I've seen you a bunch.”

  The tightness in Drez's smile unnerved me. “These tours get busy for me, sorry.”

  I didn't have time to get anxious with the tension. A crowd
was forming, Brenda leading Porter and Colt our way. “Great job tonight, guys,” she said. She beamed at me, then spotted my brother. “You especially, Lola. Sean! Hey, good opening act.”

  “Thanks.” Thumbing his ear, he looked over us all. “Getting packed. Lola, me and the guys are going to be at a place down the street. I'll text you if you want to show for the afterparty, okay?”

  “Sure. Sounds good.” I was smiling again. I couldn't keep my exuberance in control. It kept floating up, solid images of what I'd just done out there. “And thanks, Sean.”

  He walked backwards, wiggling his fingers. “For what?”

  For being there for me, for pushing me. “Just... everything.” He rolled his eyes before hurrying away.

  Brenda grabbed her hips, hair bouncing. “Afterparties, about that. You guys better be ready to climb on the bus tomorrow.”

  “I'll be fine,” Porter said, elbowing me firmly. “Can't speak for the newbie, though.”

  I gave the bigger man a light shove, laughing. “And I told you, this isn't my first afterparty.”

  “With us, it is.” The drummer hooked his arm with mine, while Porter pushed me forward. The two men had no trouble forcing me towards a back exit. “Come on! The car will take us down the street, the club is supposed to be awesome!”

  Drezden was following, a bloodhound who had my scent. “Wait.” I dug my heels in, the floor screeching. “Wait, wait! Are we going to the same place Sean and the rest of his band will be?”

  They let me go, none of them meeting my eyes. “He might show up,” Porter mumbled.

  “Might?” Wrinkles crawled over the bridge of my nose. “They're partying elsewhere because they don't expect they'll be able to get into this club, aren't they?” I didn't wait for them to speak; their eyes were darting around, gliding off of me like I was made of oil. “If he or any of his band show up, they better be let inside.”

  A hand clapped onto my head; Drezden. “Calm down. I'll let the security know they can get in. Sound fair, kid?”

  Kid. My heart swelled at the name he'd stopped calling me so quickly. I told him not to, that's why. I said I wasn't a god damn kid. Pin-pricks crawled up my arms. Then he asked me... he asked me what I was doing to him. Every inch of me heated up, reliving the memory of being in the tub.