by Ashley Grace
My Heart’s Beat
(Hard Love & Dark Rock, Part 2)
A New Adult, Rock Star Romance Serial
By Ashley Grace
Copyright 2015 Ashley Grace
All Rights Reserved.
Cover by Jack
[email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.
Chapter 1
Trace
Micah's eyes looked like gaping pits in the front of his head, nothing in them but blackness. No mercy. No fear. He held the knife so tightly against the guy's neck that I could see the skin blanching white from the pressure. And just above that blade, the kid's pulse throbbed under his skin, his heartbeat racing.
Just a moment ago I was about to make love to the most beautiful, most stunning girl I'd met in at least a year—if not my whole life. The taste of her was still on my lips. The hunger for her was still in my blood, making my heart thunder, making my dick throb with a desire that even the antidepressants couldn't quell.
Just an hour before that, we'd been on stage, playing one of the best shows we'd played in our nearly ten years together as a band. The energy in that little club—hardly more than a dive bar in San Francisco's shady Tenderloin neighborhood, with maybe a few more than 200 people packed into its dingy performance hall—had rivaled any of the massive stadium concerts we'd experienced during any of our huge, sold-out world tours.
And now my lead guitarist was about to murder someone right in front of my eyes. A guy I'd never met was about to breath his last breath as his life bled out of him and into the fancy hotel carpet. The Belletrists were about to be destroyed, right after a night that could have been seen as proof of our triumphant return.
And Anne—the girl I'd met just a few hours ago, the girl who'd brought my passions back to life—was about to be taken out of my life forever.
"What the fuck is going on?" I said.
Micah responded, his dead eyes never leaving the face of the guy he held at knifepoint.
"This guy just busted into our party," he said. "Rushed Joey, without any provocation or a single word of warning, and started beating the shit of out of him."
My eyes went to the band's drummer, Joey, laid out on the floor. He didn't have his shirt on, and his fly was unzipped, the short, dense curls of his pubic hair peeking out. His nose was red and swollen, swelling even more with every passing second, and vivid red blood ran from his nostrils into his mustache and across his cheeks. His head rocked side to side, and his eyes looked dazed.
I looked at the guy Micah held pinned to the wall. "Who the fuck are you?" I said. "And why did you attack our drummer?"
The guy's eyes met mine, his face distorted with a mixture of rage and fear. "I'm Ronnie," he said, his voice strained. "I'm a bartender at Hemlock, the club where you guys played tonight. I came in here looking for my girlfriend Becca, and I found that drunk asshole trying to rape her."
He started to move, but Micah slammed him back against the wall. His eyes went wide, fixing themselves to Micah's face. A second later, a drop of blood ran down his neck from beneath the blade. It met the fabric of his shirt collar, a red dot swelling like a blooming flower.
"You must be confused," I said. "Joey would never rape anybody."
"Bullshit!" he shouted, though he didn't dare move. "I know what I saw."
I looked at the girl on the couch, the girl Ronnie had pointed to—Becca, Anne's friend. Her face looked as white as paper, her eyes huge and terrified, both of her hands clapped over her mouth. When I'd seen her before, throughout the course of the night, she'd come across as raucous and bawdy, out for a good time. It made the shock on her face now seem even more alarming.
"Becca," I said. "Becca!"
I took a step toward her, waved a hand in front of her face.
Her eyes blinked, some of the daze clearing from them, and they moved to meet mine.
"Becca, are you alright?"
She nodded her head, a few tiny up and down movements.
"What happened?"
Her eyes went to Joey on the floor. He still looked dazed, but he propped himself up onto his elbows now, his head wobbling on his neck, blood dripping across his bare chest and disappearing into the dark ink of his tattoos. Becca looked back at Ronnie.
"I was making out with Joey," she said, her voice quiet, monotone. She blinked again, her eyes further clearing, her voice taking on a bit more life. "I'd just made it to second base, was going for a home run. And then Ronnie burst in here and started throwing punches. He attacked Joey!"
"Becca?" Ronnie said, his voice twisting toward anguish. "What are you saying?"
She stood up.
"What the fuck, Ronnie? I was about to bag my first rock star! Why'd you have to cock-block me like that?"
Ronnie's face looked stunned. His hands dropped to his sides.
"I thought…" His wide eyes blinked, and he shook his head as if he felt totally bewildered. "I thought we had something special going on, me and you."
"Well, sure. We go good together, it's true. I always have a blast when we fuck. But c'mon, it's not like I'm wearing an engagement ring. We're not even boyfriend girlfriend—you've never even taken me out on a date!"
"But… what about last Wednesday?"
Becca shook her head, incredulous. "Ronnie, me going home with you after your shift at the club, and us reheating tater tots and watching Quantum Leap reruns while screwing on your couch, does not constitute a date. And just 'cause I let you lick my butt one time, it doesn't mean you own me. I'm nineteen years old, for chrissakes! I'm not looking to settle down already."
I wouldn't have thought it possible, but Ronnie's face blazed even redder at that. His lips pulled tight, his eyebrows arched up in the middle like a miniature motor-cross jump. If he'd looked enraged and afraid before, now he mostly looked embarrassed.
And then Joey heaved himself to his feet, lurching and stumbling like he was on a ship in a storm.
"Whoah, dude!" he said, his eyes blinking like strobes. "What a fucking headache! Feels like someone put a kick drum inside my brain, Boom Boom Boom."
He put his hand to his head, and squeezed his eyes shut for a second. And then he shook his head again, threw his shoulders back in a stretch.
"You alright, Joey?" I asked.
His eyes blinked open, and he looked over at me. "Trace! Yeah, man, I'm alright. Had worse hangovers than this. Remember that show we did in Paris, on the American Nightmare tour? All that champagne we drank? Fuck man, now that was a hangover."
His eyes slipped past me, and he blinked again, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Hi, Anne," he said, "nice tits!"
I turned around and saw Anne standing behind me, blushing scarlet from her chest to her cheeks. She must have run out of the room right after me when she heard her friend screaming, not even sparing a second to throw on her dress. Now she stood there, naked and gorgeous, clutching her crumpled dress to her chest—though it did nothing to hide the lovely, full curve of her bare hips.
"All right Trace!" Joey said. "The Legend, back in action after a year-long sabbatical. Right on!"
"We didn't…" Anne said, blushing even brighter. She looked at me shyly, head downturned a little, eyes looking out through her lashes. "Well, not yet."
I felt another surge of lust swelling in my chest.
And not just in my chest.
"Well shit," Joey said. "I guess the party ain't over yet!"
He stumbled over toward Sergio and Sara, plucked the whiskey bottle from Sergio's ha
nds.
"The night is young, and the Belletrists are back, man. Tonight is a night to celebrate!"
"You sure you're alright, Joey?" I asked.
"Yeah man. Like I said, I've had worse hangovers than this. Ain't my first rodeo, if you know what I mean. And besides, the best cure is always a little hair from the dog that bit you."
He lifted the whiskey bottle and took a slug, the brown liquid sloshing in the square glass.
"What about this punch-happy fucker here?" Micah said. He hadn't moved yet, the knife blade still pressed against Ronnie's throat.
"If he wants to, I say let him stay!" Joey said. "The more the merrier!"
Micah looked back at Ronnie. "You gonna be cool if I let you go?"
Ronnie nodded his head, the motion short and quick as if he were afraid to move too much.
"All right, then," Micah said, stepping back and lowering the knife.
Ronnie clutched at his throat with his hand, lifted his palm in front of his eyes. Some of the color seemed to drain from his face when he saw the blood.
"You fucking cut me, man!"
"That's not a cut," Micah said, the knife still in his lowered hand, blade out. "That's just a nick, like what you'd get shaving." He raised his other hand, pointing a finger at Ronnie's nose. "But if you try anything else, I will cut you, and it'll be more than a little scratch like that one. I promise you that."
Joey stumbled over to them, still walking like he was on a pitching ship. He hadn't zipped up his fly yet, and his jeans were hanging off of his hips.
"Guys, guys," he said. "Slow your roll. We're all friends here." He raised the whiskey bottle up, offered it to Ronnie. "Take a drink, and be merry. You're gonna party with the greatest dark rock band in the world tonight!"
Ronnie looked Joey in the eye, his face hardening slightly. His hand came up by his waist, clenched to a fist. And then he seemed to think better of it, and his fingers uncurled, reaching for the bottle.
He put the mouth of the bottle to his lips and tipped it back.
"That's what I'm talking about," Joey shouted, clapping the younger guy on the shoulder. "Man, you've got a hell of a right hook! I haven't taken a punch like that since the last show we played in Mexico City, when I accidentally insulted the mayor's mistress. Here, splash a little whiskey on that cut—just in case Micah's blade was dirty—and then come on over here and let me introduce you to Blondie."
Joey led Ronnie over to the blonde he'd been making out with in the limo on the way to the show. She'd fallen asleep in an easy chair—had apparently slept through their whole altercation—but when Joey put a hand on her shoulder her eyes fluttered open and a big smile appeared on her face.
Someone turned the music back on, signaling the end of the altercation. I turned back to Anne.
"You okay?" I asked.
She nodded, still clutching the dress against her chest. Her eyes went to her friend Becca, who stood up from the couch and quickly walked past us toward the bathroom.
"I better go check on my friend, though," she said.
For a moment I felt something like panic, worried that this girl who'd appeared so suddenly, and made such an impact, would disappear just as quickly. As if she were a dream I was scared of waking from.
Maybe she saw something in my eyes. "I'll be right back," she said.
I nodded my head. "Okay."
And then she turned around, still clutching her crumpled dress to her chest, and hurried to the bathroom after her friend.
I didn't like seeing her go, even if it was just for a moment. But I have to admit, I did like the view.
Chapter 2
Anne
I knocked on the door to the bathroom, waited a moment, and then slipped in.
Becca was sitting on the toilet, naked except for her bra, her dress and panties crumpled into a ball beside her bare feet.
"Oh! Sorry." I said, turning back toward the door.
"Anne, hold on," she said. "I'm almost done. God, I had to piss like a racehorse! I've been holding it since we got in the limo at the club."
"Why'd you wait so long?" I asked as I started putting my clothes back on.
"I didn't wanna interrupt the flow of things between me and Joey, didn't wanna give that little blonde girl a chance to block me out. And I was doing pretty good, too—had the prize in my hand, hot and throbbing—until Ronnie popped in and fucked everything up. Geez! Talk about bad timing!"
She stood up, flushed the toilet, and went to the sink to wash her hands. Even though she was still naked except for the bra, she started checking her makeup in the mirror before she reached for her clothes.
I saw her look into her own eyes in the mirror's reflection. She paused, and then a little tremor went through her.
"Are you alright, Becca?"
She nodded. "I'm alright. I'll admit that I am a little shook up, though. One moment I'm making out with one of the most famous rockers in the world, playing with his jimmy like it's my own personal joystick. The next moment, Ronnie's ripping the guy out of my hands, hammering punches right into his face." She squeezed her eyes shut, her lips drawing into a tight line. "And the moment after that, the Belletrist guitarist has Ronnie pinned to the wall with a knife to his throat."
Another shudder went through her.
"I swear to god," she whispered, "I thought I was going to see Ronnie get killed right in front of my eyes." She shook her head again, and looked at me in the mirror.
"Bit of a mood killer," I said. "Even for you."
"You've got that right. I mean, I know they're dark rock and everything, with the black clothes and the eyeliner and all that, but that guitarist sort of gives me the creeps."
"Yeah, me too."
She turned around, grabbed her dress off the floor and stepped into it.
"Oh well. My momma always says that when you get thrown off the horse, you've just got to get right back on." She threw her panties to me. "Put those in your purse for me, okay? Something tells me Joey won't need much of a push to get back in the mood, but just in case he does, the short-skirt-no-panties combo always seems to do the trick. 'A flash of the beaver and he'll be a believer'."
My eyes widened with surprise. "Seriously? You wanna go back out there and act like nothing happened?"
"Well, not exactly like nothing has happened—hence the no-panties strategy. But I'm not gonna let my night go to shit just because Ronnie's got issues with possessiveness. I was on my way to scoring with a rock star! You don't get a chance at that sort of thing every night. And the way that Joey kisses…" Her eyes went distant and a little smile crooked her lips. "I know he's gonna be great in bed."
"But what about Ronnie? You don't think he's gonna freak out again if he sees you getting hot and heavy with Joey right in front of him?"
"Didn't you see how Joey gave him a shot and introduced him to Blondie? Classic misdirection technique, perfectly executed. When I head back out, there I wouldn't be surprised if Ronnie doesn't even remember who I am. These guys are pros, Anne. We're hanging with the big boys right now, and it's time to go big or go home."
With those words, her smile deepened a little, and her eyes narrowed. She stepped toward me, caught hold of my arm.
"Speaking of which," she said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, "how's it going with you and Trace."
I felt my cheeks going hot again, and I couldn't help but smile.
"Come on, Anne. Remember who got you into the show in the first place. You owe me! So spill it, girl, and don't spare the juicy details. What happened?"
"Well, he kissed me," I said, "…down there."
"Down there?" She gave me an exaggerated look of confusion. "Down where? Like, on your kneecap?"
"You know what I mean," I said, blushing even deeper.
"Can't say that I do, Annie Fanny. You mean, on your shin or something?"
I shook my head. "On my… on my sex."
"On your 'sex'? What, are we in some Victorian era, Regency romance right n
ow? What the hell do you mean your 'sex'?"
I dropped my voice even lower, my face blazing with embarrassment. "He kissed my pussy," I whispered.
"Now we're talking," she crowed. "Finally! Jeepers Creepers, I don't know why you're so scared of a simple little word. Pussy! Snatch! Cunt! Meat Wallet! Whatever you wanna say, don't be scared to come out and say it. A pussy is a beautiful thing; it's a little pleasure garden every girl is lucky enough to have between her legs. Don't be ashamed that you've got one, Anne."
"Alright, alright!" I said. "Fine! He kissed my pussy. Are you happy now?"
"Close. But not quite. What the hell do you mean by kiss? Like, a chaste little peck on your lower lips? Or was he going for it? Chowing down on sweet Annie's little lunch box?"
"Oh my god," I said, covering my face with my hands from sheer embarrassment. "Sometimes you're just too much, Becca. I swear."
"You swear? I'll show you some goddamn swearing if you don't cut the crap and give it to me straight, Anne."
"Fine! He didn't just give me a little peck, and there sure as hell wasn't anything chaste about it. He licked me. He sucked me. He stuck his tongue up inside me and fucked me with it like it was a dick."
"I knew it!" She punched me in the arm.
"Ow!" I rubbed my arm.
"I knew he was a muff diver! Didn't I tell you these singers are all orally inclined? Didn't I?"
"You might have mentioned something like that, yes."
"You're damned right, 'yes'," she said. "Well… go on. How was it?"
For a moment the vision of Trace's dark eyes looking up at me from between my thighs, the reverent and hungry look I'd seen on his face, the feel of his tongue wet and insistent against my most tender parts—it all came back to me so vividly that the bathroom seemed to drop away and I felt like I was back in the bedroom with him.
I felt a tingling between my legs, a hunger building once again.
"Honestly," I said, "it was pretty incredible."
"I knew it! I knew it!" Becca looked so excited that I half expected her to do a victory dance. "And? Did you come?"
I nodded, blushing again. "It was probably the best orgasm I've ever had in my life."
