Rocked by Him

by Lucy Lambert

  “Whoa!” I said, clapping my hand over my mouth. I couldn’t tell if I���d done it out of his unintentionally surprising me, or out of shock at that patch.

  He shifted away from the wall and turned around to face me. I felt like I should take a step back so that I didn’t have to crane my neck up so much to look into his face.

  This guy had a full black beard and a receding hairline. Soft, doe-like eyes stared down at me from underneath a set of bushy eyebrows only a few stray hairs away from being a unibrow.

  “Uh, hi?” I said.

  He examined me. Not in the way that Bud liked to undress me with his eyes. More in a detached, weighing manner. He was a bouncer, clearly. When he took in my grey business jacket and my utilitarian purse, his face changed. He’d dismissed me as a threat.

  The front of his jacket opened up enough for me to see the shirt stretched across his broad chest, and the seemingly tiny nametag that had the same silhouette of a rocker from the club’s sign and “Lawrence” in stenciled letters beside it.

  “Jennifer?” he said.

  “You’re the guy using Drake’s phone!” I said. “Where is Drake? What’s wrong? Why did you call me?”

  Rather than answer, he turned around and motioned over his shoulder for me to follow. It felt like every step he took, I needed to take two. And he was so wide I could hardly see around him. It was like driving down a road behind a big rig and trailer, being totally blind as to what lay ahead.

  “I saw your name come up in a text message,” he said, “Figured you’re his girlfriend, so you’ll know what to do with him. Come on; we’re almost there.”

  On a normal sized guy, his voice would have been ordinary. But since he was so huge, it was almost comical. You expected a huge guy like that to have a voice that set the floor trembling with its bass.

  The text! I stopped dead for a second, panic streaking through me, before getting in motion again. Lawrence saw my text. That meant Drake probably hadn’t yet.

  I wasn’t sure how to process that. Should I be relieved, or angry? Unfortunately, emotions don’t often give you the luxury of considering which of them to experience at any given moment.

  At that specific moment, it was a soothing, cool relief gently washing away my initial shock.

  I didn’t even try to correct him on the whole girlfriend thing. Besides, I didn’t have the time.

  Lawrence brought his impressive bulk to a quick halt. Deceptively nimble for his size. I didn’t envy the drunk or the brawler who got on his bad side.

  The plaque on the door read Dressing A. And I could even hear something from within.

  Lawrence turned around to face me, one big paw on the door handle. “You’ve got fifteen minutes to get him on stage. The openers have already been on a half hour too long.”

  “Wait… What?”

  Lawrence didn’t respond. He started opening the door, then hesitated as he looked at me. One big hand snuck under his jacket and pulled out a cell. This, he gave to me.

  He frowned when I didn’t recognize it. “His phone. You can give it back… Good luck.”

  Then Lawrence stalked away from me down the hall, that bald eager patch rippling slightly with his movements.

  I hefted Drake’s phone, looking down at the glossy, dead screen, then up at the door. It was painted a rust color, really highlighting the shining stainless steel doorknob. He was just behind that door, I knew.

  Putting his phone into the inside pocket of my jacket, I twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open, stepping inside before I could change my mind. I’d come all the way down here, hadn’t I? Paid a good amount of money, too. I wasn’t going to let myself get away with not seeing him.

  Besides, I thought, it can’t get any worse than it already has, right? I mean, I’d already been fired. What could possibly top that?

  A vanity long enough for four people covered in makeup supplies ran along the far wall, a mirror of the same length running in front of it lit by a bank of soft, large-bulbed lights. The mirrors gave the room the illusion of great depth, doubling everything.

  Those lights around the mirror were the only ones on. They couldn’t quite keep some shadows from building up in the corners.

  “Drake?” I said.

  “Jenn?” he replied, sitting up on the leather couch along the right wall.

  I flicked on the overhead lights, and we both squinted at the sudden brightness.

  I didn’t know how I wanted to react to him. But again, my emotions didn’t really give me a choice in the matter.

  He looked a bit more frayed and rough around the edges than usual. His stubble was a bit longer, and his hair stood out a bit at the back from having his head pressed down against the cushioned arm of the couch.

  The ghost of his rakish smile touched his lips, but disappeared quickly.

  Right away, I found myself sat on the couch beside him, one of his hands in both of mine on my lap. He squeezed my fingers, and his skin felt cool and dry. His hands were bigger than mine, the fingers long and graceful.

  All that anger disappeared, replaced by a need to help him through whatever this was. To show him how good I could be for him.

  We sat for a few moments, the dull reverberations of the music shifting through the room, a cup on the vanity vibrating ever so slightly.

  “What happened? What’s wrong?” I said.

  Here, some more of the color drained from his face, making his stubble and hair look even darker. His fingers clenched up around mine, almost to the point of pain. I breathed in sharply.

  Drake seemed both angry and embarrassed at the same time.

  “It’s the show,” he began.

  “People keep telling me all about it! It’s your big break, isn’t it?”

  He looked around the room, giving an absent nod. Then he turned those eyes on me.

  “I can’t do it,” he finished.

  I didn’t understand. From what I’d gathered from our previous encounters, he and The Icons had done plenty of gigs. I figured it was at these that he picked up all those women. I could only imagine what it would be like. Him, up on stage, reaching into people with his music. I bet he was a good singer.

  “Are you sick?” I said, wondering if his paleness signaled a cold or flu or something worse.

  “No.” His jaw tightened.

  “Did someone else in the band not show up?”

  “No.” His lips compressed into a thin line. I could feel his anger building. Was it at me? I didn’t want him to be mad at me. I mean, by all rights I should be mad at him!

  There was one other possibility that came to mind. One that I didn’t really want to deal with. But I had to get it out of the way.

  “Drake… Are you on anything? Medication? …Drugs?” They went together with rock, right? Sex, drugs, rock and roll, all that?

  This time his smile did return, and he nudged me with his elbow. “Yeah, I’m higher than the damn moon.”

  I played it like it was a joke, laughing and nudging him back.

  “So what is it, then?” I said.

  He pulled his hand away. I found that I missed it, and I rubbed at my thighs.

  “I just can’t do it, okay?” Drake said. He stood up, running his hands through his hair. Then he leaned against the vanity, looking his reflection in the eye, searching his own gaze for something. Or accusing it, I wasn’t sure.

  Then it dawned on me. My closest experience was school. All throughout my degree, I had to give presentations, slideshows, that kind of thing. No big deal, right?

  And it wasn’t. Not until my final year at least. I had a seminar class about search engine optimization and other web-based marketing strategies (basically, making sure your client’s site gets ranked highly in Google searches and the like). It was worth 40% of my final grade, and I needed to pass that class to get my degree.

  Suddenly, it wasn’t just another presentation. It was THE presentation. The make-or-break one.

  Drake’s circumstanc
es were different of course, but the general situation was the same. I remembered how much I agonized over it, how I feared forgetting some crucial thing that would cost me the grade. It kept me up at nights. Just the anticipation, the suspense, almost did me in.

  Drake was choking. He had the yips; he’d psyched himself out. Whatever you wanted to call it.

  If my earlier anger and frustration towards him wasn’t gone before, it was at that moment. If anything, I liked him even more than those precious few seconds of our almost-kiss standing in my kitchen.

  Drake wasn’t just some horndog rock star. He was a man. And he was showing me that with these little glimpses into his heart and mind.

  Drake stared into his reflection’s eyes all throughout my little epiphany. Probably psyching himself out even more, calling himself stupid and worthless and stuff like that. Stuff I knew about.

  Stuff I knew I could help him deal with.

  I smoothed the little wrinkles and folds out of my skirt and stood. This had to be done gently, with care. The strongest, most confident man in the world could go through this, I knew. Anyone could.

  Because everybody is their own worst enemy.

  Drake got himself into this hole. All I could do was toss down the rope and hold it steady while he climbed up.

  “The show is going to be great,” I said. I stood a little bit behind him, watching his shoulders rise and fall with his breath. He reminded me of some Greek god or titan, contemplating his statuesque features like that in the mirror, an inner maelstrom swirling within that handsome exterior.

  His eyes shifted up to look at me. It reminded me of when the reckless cabbie glanced back at me.

  “It could be. But it won’t. Not while I’m like this…”

  “It is going to be great. Don’t you know why?” I put my hand on his back, the black leather jacket supple to the touch.

  Drake snorted and gave me an eye roll he must have been practicing since he was a kid. “Because they’re gonna get another band up there in a few minutes?”

  I swallowed against a lump rising up my throat. My body quivered. I felt so connected to him right then, in this vulnerable moment of his. His sullenness, his quiet anger at himself, told me of the pride he took in his skill, and the skill of his band. He was angry because he was letting his band mates down, but even more so because he knew that he let himself down.

  So I steadied myself, closing my eyes for a moment and using the steady rhythm of his breathing to help.

  “No. That’s not going to happen. This is your night. No one can take that from you. Not even you. You’re going to get on that stage, you’re going to feel that fear. And you’re going to rock them all… You’re going to rock me. And personally, I can’t wait.”

  He stared at me intently, his eyes crystal clear and intense, and I knew he heard and understood every word I said.

  I hadn’t meant to add that last part. It just came out. But it was true. I was going to be out there in the crowd, center stage, to witness his victory.

  The blood pounding through my veins felt far too hot, too thin. My knees could no longer keep my legs straight. They began crumpling beneath me.

  “Jenn…” Drake began.

  Then he saw me start to fall. He wheeled around and caught me up in his arms, his hands pulling me protectively against his body. I pressed my ear to his chest. His heart pounded, hard and fast.

  I remember thinking he had a good smell. A light cologne, but very masculine.

  I remember him smoothing my hair back, and I remember looking up into his face, so close to mine.

  Then my eyes closed. I finally gave into my needs, finally fanned the smoldering embers in my body to a lusty heat.

  “Jenn…” Drake said again, his hands sliding down to the small of my back, pulling our hips together.

  His lips were gentle at first against mine. Soft and warm. Pliant. Insistent. Our kiss moved from innocence to naked desire, his lips parting mine so that our tongues could meet. His hands moving down farther, squeezing my body as the strength of his heat built between us.

  Somehow, we ended up on his couch. His hands tore at my clothes, pulling my blouse out of my skirt even as I shrugged out of my jacket while also feeling the firmness of his abs.

  All the while we kissed. We kissed so hard and deep that we only pulled away when we needed to gulp down a few more breaths.

  It was so damn hot. It felt like someone had turned the thermostat all the way up, like someone had set up a heat lamp right over us.

  He grabbed a handful of my hair and made a fist in it, arching my head back so that he could run his teeth along my neck. His other hand grabbed the hem of my skirt and pulled it up, baring my thigh. We ground our bodies together, unable to wait.

  I wanted it. I wanted him like I’d never wanted a man before. I’d never felt this way with Jerry, and I knew I’d never feel this way again with another man.

  “Drake…” I breathed, nibbling his earlobe as the tips of his fingers traced hot lines up my inner thigh, getting closer and closer…

  Then someone knocked on the door. The sound of it barely registered in my lust-drenched mind.

  But it didn’t stop there.

  “Drake? You have one minute to get out on stage,” Lawrence said.

  “Tell him to go,” Drake said. His fingers were electric in the most sensual way. And they were oh so very close… He could feel my heat, I knew.

  But as much as I wanted it more than anything, I also realized that I didn’t want him to sacrifice this incredible opportunity for me.

  So I pulled his lips away from my neck and onto my mouth. We kissed like I thought it should never end. But I finally got my hands on his shoulders and pushed him back. The redness of desire flushed his face, and the look in his eyes held such promise.

  “Drake?” Lawrence said, his ham fist knocking the door about in its frame.

  I closed my eyes and did what I needed to do.

  “He’s coming!” I said.

  Drake went rigid against me. I could feel his eyes trying to look into mine, so I kept them shut. If I met his gaze, neither of us would be able to control ourselves. It had to be this way, no matter how it hurt. And that wound went deeper than I thought it could.

  He stroked my cheek.

  “Jenn… Are you sure?”

  “Go. Go,” I said.

  The couch shifted as he climbed off of it and me. I felt cold without him there, felt strange without his weight on top of me.

  I listened to the door open.

  “You ready?” Lawrence said. If I’d never seen him before, I would have thought he was a short, scrawny guy by his voice.

  “Yeah. I am. I’ll see you out there, Jenn,” Drake said.

  I managed a nod. Shortly thereafter, the door closed and I could feel the loneliness of the dressing room suffocating me.

  Finally I opened my eyes. I saw my reflection in that long mirror. My hair was disheveled, my jacket in a heap on the top of the couch and my blouse partially undone, revealing my body.

  An indescribable loss pervaded my being. A soul-crushing emptiness and regret. That I had done the right thing was little consolation.

  Now I had to fix myself up and go out there to see The Icons perform. I had to watch Drake up on stage with all the other women filling Club 54, anyone of whom he’d be able to take home tonight if he wanted.

  Would he want me?

  I stood up, tucking my blouse back in and doing up the buttons, wondering how I was going to make my hair look half-decent again when I sensed that something had changed.

  I stopped, my fingers midway through the process of poking the top button of my blouse through its hole.

  It was the music. That heavy bass. It had stopped.

  Club 54 stood still, it’s breath held in anticipation..

  Quickly as I could, I bent down in front of the mirror and raked at my hair with my fingers. I did that until I found a brush, and I winced as I yanked out knots. I couldn�
��t miss the start of this show. I wouldn’t miss it.

  ***

  I ran down the hall, skidding around the corners, panicked energy fueling my flight. Finally, I burst through the door back into the main foyer of Club 54.

  The scene had changed completely. Two bartenders now did their best to serve the flood of people breaking against the bar. A punk-looking girl with a streak of pink through her white hair chewed on gum as she took coat after coat.

  Dozens of conversations whirled through the air. The glow of smartphone screens floated about like ghosts. And all through that was a general press towards that hallway door that led to the show.

  The crowd bottlenecked there, people pressing up against each other. They were mostly young, many of them choosing to keep their leather jackets on, or otherwise wearing dark t-shirts with the logos of their favorite bands.

  However, I also saw a guy in a grey business suit, his matching tie hanging slack and the top two buttons of his shirt undone. It seemed Club 54 could attract all sorts of different people.

  I pushed my way into that press, using my elbows to nudge people out of the way. Despite the air conditioning, all those bodies heated the place up. And leather doesn’t really smell nice when damp.

  “Hey!” a girl wearing thick eyeliner said after I stepped on her toes.

  “Sorry!” I replied, not pausing to let it escalate further.

  Finally, I got up to the door. Lawrence stood in front of it, his bulk nearly blocking the entire thing. He collected tickets, scrutinizing each one to make sure it had the correct date on it. The little red slips of paper looked especially tiny in his hands.

  One guy with a black mohawk tried to get through without permission. Lawrence grabbed him by the face and shoved him back.

  Ticket! I thought. Lawrence glanced at me as he let some people pass through. I shoved my hand into my pocket and felt the little stub there. My sense of triumph far outweighed what it should have been.

  Lawrence accepted the ticket and waved me through. A dark hallway full of murmuring people greeted me. The crowd kept up a slow pace, inching forward.