by Ashley Grace
"God-damn, girl!" she practically shouted. "And what next? Did Innocent Anne finally turn in her V-card?"
I shook my head, surprised by how sad and disappointed it made me feel. "No. I wanted to—I really wanted to—and I was ready. But then we heard you screaming, and we ran out to the living room to see what was wrong."
Becca shook her head. "Shit," she said. "Ronnie cock-blocked me, and then I cock-blocked you. That actually really bums me out. Well come on then. You've got to get back on the horse, too."
I shook my head.
"I don't know if I can, Becca. What happened with Ronnie—it freaked me out pretty bad. Aren't you worried that we're in over our heads, here? I mean, Trace is a rock star, and I've never even had sex. I'm not exactly well-practiced at any of this stuff."
"Oh, don't worry about that. Most of the time, the guy does all the real work, anyway. Just lay back and enjoy the ride."
"It's not just that… though that is part of it. But, I mean, the stuff that already happened tonight—the way Micah Green pulled that knife and went after Ronnie… the way Joey keeps sucking down whiskey—and I'm pretty sure it's not just whiskey he's sucking down, either. Even the way the crowd went crazy when the band's limo left the club—I was scared there was gonna be a riot!"
I shook my head again, remembering the feeling of being in that limo when the people all around it were screaming and yelling. It was thrilling, but it was terrifying too.
"Becca, you know me. I spend most of my Friday nights alone, reading old poetry. Even that party you threw in our dorm—the one where the fratboy puked on my sweater—even that freaked me out. I just feel like all of this might be more than I can handle."
She put her hand on my shoulder.
"Anne, forget about all of that for a moment. Forget about all the rock star stuff—the screaming crowds and the loud music and the oversized personalities of the rest of the band—just put all of that out of your head for a minute, and focus instead on Trace."
She paused for a moment, holding my gaze, before continuing.
"He's a guy, and you're a girl. It's obvious he likes you—he's had his eyes glued to you since the moment he first saw you, when we were sneaking out of the green room at the club. I mean, he barely even looked at me, and I'm totally hot, especially when I'm rocking that post-orgasmic glow—and I was, come to think of it. Which reminds me that maybe I shouldn't be all down on Ronnie after all, because he's a pretty damned good lay, and in the end you've got to give a guy some credit for that."
Her eyes drifted off, the smile returning to her lips. A second later her eyes came back to mine.
"But that's a different topic. We're talking about you and Trace. And like I said, it's obvious he's into you. And it's obvious you're into him, too. You love all his emo song lyrics, you've got his picture above your bed. Barely a minute ago you told me he just gave you the best orgasm of your life. Obviously, you two have some serious chemistry going on. So focus on that, the main act, and forget about the rest of the circus for a while. Alright?"
I thought of Trace, of the look in his eyes when he'd gone down on me, of how deep and dark those eyes seemed, especially because they were framed by such beautiful long lashes.
And then another image elbowed its way into my head: Trace screaming "ALONE" while the band played the one new song they'd performed that night—which fell apart halfway through because the band's keyboardist, Sara Sounding, had run off the stage in tears. I thought of the anguish, as raw as a bleeding wound, that seemed to possess him while the band performed that song.
"What is it?" Becca said. She ducked her head, peering into my eyes as if she'd see my thoughts themselves if she looked deeply enough. "What are you thinking?"
My eyes snapped back into focus on hers.
"It's just…" I sucked the inside of my lips for a moment, thinking. "It's just, what if I like him too much. Trace is beautiful, Becca. He's the most beautiful man I've ever met."
I nearly whispered the next words: "What if I fall for him? What if he breaks my heart?"
I felt her grip go firm on my shoulder. She leaned in so close that her hazel eyes filled my vision.
"Listen to me, Anne," she said, the words slow and serious. "If you let fear keep you from going after what you want, you'll miss your chance to live your dreams. Love, happiness—all the best things in life—they can be had for a cost. And the cost is courage. The cost is being brave enough to risk getting hurt."
For a moment neither of us spoke another word, neither of us blinked or looked away. She held me frozen in place with the force of her gaze.
"And," she continued, "if you want to make a boy's heart go all gooey, gobble his knob."
"What?!"
"I'm serious! Doing the chicken head," she bobbed her head forward and back a few times, "is the surest way to a dude's heart. Forget all that nonsense you heard about cooking."
"Becca, god!"
Someone knocked on the door.
"Just a minute!" she shouted.
She looked back at me, her lips splitting into a grin. "I'm not joking! It's all about blowjobs, Anne. Pole smoking. Playing the skin flute. Just pretend you're sucking on a super-good popsicle, taking it layer by layer using only the inside of your lips—no teeth—trying to make it last as long as you can. Like, a really luscious, delicious, hot, pulsing popsicle, with an ooey-gooey cream center that spurts all thick and salty in your mouth."
There was another knock at the door.
"Hold your horses, already!" she shouted. And then she looked back at me again. "I'm serious: blowjobs."
"God, Becca. Sometimes you're too much! One moment you sound like you're speaking some deep truth, like a prophet or a guru on the mountaintop, and the next moment you sound like you're quoting dialogue from a raunchy teen comedy."
"Hey, there's a lot of deep wisdom in some of those raunchy teen comedies," she said. "I mean, American Pie is what showed me how versatile food can be. Before I saw that I used to never touch carrots or zucchinis."
"Becca, I swear you're actually a horny guy in a girl's body. Or maybe an alien, or something."
"Hey, I resent that! I'm a feminist is what I am. I believe girls have the right to be just as into boning as guys. And speaking of boning, lets get out of this lonely little hotel bathroom, and see if we can find Joey and Trace."
Chapter 3
Anne
I took one last quick glance in the mirror, making sure my dress was on straight and I looked halfway decent, and Becca reached out for the doorknob. When she opened it, she nearly flinched.
Ronnie was standing on the other side. And he wasn't alone. The little blonde girl was with him.
"Hey, Becca. Hi Anne," he said. "You guys finished in there? Blondie needs to use it."
"I gotta tinkle," Blondie said. Her eyes looked glassy and red, staring off into space. Now that I was close to her, I could smell the pungent scent of weed.
"Sure, sure," Becca said. "We're finished. It's all yours."
She pushed the door open and we slipped out into the hall. Blondie shuffled in and went straight to the toilet, not bothering—or not remembering—to close the door. I pulled it shut for her.
"We're gonna blow this lame scene," Ronnie said. "Blondie's hungry, so we're heading over to Bangkok King for some Thai food."
He was standing smack dab in the middle of the hallway, like a road block.
"Um, sounds good, Ronnie," Becca said. "You guys have fun."
She started to step around him, and I followed. But before we got too far, I heard Ronnie speak again.
"Hey Becca."
She turned around to face him. He leaned in a little, giving her a look.
"You got an extra condom I could borrow?" he said.
Becca reached into the side of her bra and pulled out a foil packet. I recognized it as the condom she'd found on the floor of the club, right after Sara Sounding rushed off the stage in tears.
"Sure, Ronnie," she said, ho
lding the condom out to him. "Here you go."
"Thanks, hun." He plucked the condom out of her hand. "You're the best."
Ronnie turned and leaned up against the wall opposite the bathroom door, waiting for Blondie. I followed Becca, who'd taken a few steps down the hall. When she got to the living room she stopped, her hands covering her mouth, her shoulders shaking. A little twinge of alarm shot through me, and I hurried to catch up to her.
"Are you alright, Becca," I said, putting my hand on her back.
And then I realized she was laughing.
"Ah, hahahaha! Did you see that?" She turned back to me, her eyes squeezed tight, her teeth flashing in the dim light. "I think the silly boy was trying to make me jealous! God! He really doesn't know me at all, does he? And to think that just twenty minutes ago he called me his girlfriend."
She shook her head, looking back at the living room area of the hotel suite.
"Now where were we? Trying to find our rock stars, if I'm not mistaken."
-
Someone had turned the music back up, and I recognized the frenetic chaos of a Skrillex song. There'd been around a dozen people in the hotel when Trace and I had gone into the bedroom, but it looked like at least another dozen had showed up since then.
Becca spotted Joey first. He was over in the suite's kitchen with Sergio Rodriguez and another guy I didn't know, the three of them lining shot glasses up on the counter, cutting a lime into wedges, pouring salt into a little glass dish.
"Tequila shooters!" Becca said. "Awesome!"
And then she trotted off, leaving me on my own.
I scanned the crowd, suddenly feeling intimidated all over again. I was by myself in the middle of a group of people I didn't know, all of them looking older and cooler and more comfortable with the setting than I felt. Becca had left me, and I still hadn't found Trace.
When I finally spotted him, a little rush of excitement hit me. And desire, too, heady and thick. There was nothing I wanted more than to grab him and run back to the bedroom we'd been in just a short while ago.
But then I looked at the people he was standing with, and just like that, my soaring heart went plunging. I felt like it was dropping into my stomach.
Trace was standing next to a cocktail table up against the wall, talking with Bernstein and a sharp-looking lady with bright red lipstick and a pair of glasses that narrowed to points on the outer sides. She looked like a sexy librarian, and Trace looked very engaged in his conversation with her. Very engaged and focused, his dark eyes taking her in, unblinking.
I pulled in a quick breath, let it out through my mouth. Just a few minutes ago, Becca had given me a lecture about how I needed to be brave when I was going after the things I wanted in life. I wanted Trace—the memory of the way he'd made me feel in the bedroom, and the sight of him then and there, made me want him more than ever.
I took another breath, and started walking over toward the table.
Trace's eyes found mine before I'd taken two steps, his mouth opening in a gorgeous smile that made me a little rush of excitement flash in my chest. Just a little while ago, he'd been using that beautiful mouth on me.
On my pussy, I thought, telling myself that Becca would approve.
Trace took a step away from the table, holding out his hand for me. "Anne," he said, "I've been looking for you. Come on over here."
His words made me feel another tingling thrill.
"You've already met Bernstein."
"Hi," I said.
"Hello, kitzeleh." He gave me a gentle smile.
"And this here is Janice," Trace continued, gesturing toward the sexy-librarian lady. "She's the chief editor for the Arts and Entertainment section of the San Francisco Chronicle."
"Hi, Janice," I said, holding out my hand to shake.
She kept her hands on the table in front of her, her eyes trained on mine. Somehow her expression managed to look both amused and coldly calculating at once.
For a moment I just stood there, with my hand hanging in the air awkwardly. And then the librarian bitch spoke.
"How old are you, Anne?" she said.
I lowered my hand, clenched both my hands together in front of me.
"Um…" I sputtered, "Nineteen."
"Nineteen," Janice said. "Trace, you surprise me. I didn't know you liked them so young. The last girl I saw you with was a lot older than that."
I looked back at him, feeling my heartbeat start to race in my chest. But his eyes were fixed on Janice, his expression unreadable.
"Actually," he said, a moment later, "Janice was just leaving. Right Bernstein?"
The round-bellied manager stretched his arm out, showing the way toward the door. "Let's leave these young folks to their party, Janice dear," he said, a look of regret in his eyes. "You and me, we're too old for this scene."
Her expression didn't change, but I thought I caught a flicker of rage in her eyes. She brushed past me, her legs scissoring back and forth with each long stride. The sound of her heels hitting the floor tiles was so sharp I could hear it over the blaring music.
Bernstein followed after her, keeping up but doing it in a way that didn't look hurried.
I felt a pair of arms wrapping around me from behind, pulling me back into a warm embrace. It was Trace holding me, and the feel of his arms around me, of his firm chest at my back, sent warm pleasure flowing through me. His lips touched my neck, sparking electric tingles all the way down my spine.
"Don't worry about Janice," he said, his voice low, so close I could feel the warmth of his breath against my earlobe. "She's kind of a bitch."
"Yeah. I was sort of getting that impression."
"I normally don't talk to the press, not since our first couple of years. But Bernstein asked me to talk with Janice specifically because the Chronicle's gonna run a front page write-up of tonight's show. He's excited, trying to pave the way for our return to action. And after all the ups and downs he's gone through with us, I feel like I owe it to him to play along."
"It was an incredible show. You guys were amazing."
"Best show we've played in years. And I think I know why."
He kissed my neck again, sending another shower of sparks cascading down through my body, lighting me up inside. I leaned back into his arms, feeling his body against mine, his firm chest… and other things, growing firm too.
I felt another pulse of desire between my legs. I turned around to face him, looking up into his dark, soulful eyes. God, there was something about the way he looked at me that made me melt inside.
He lifted a hand, combing his fingers through my hair.
"There's just something about you, Anne," he whispered. "You make me feel like I'm coming back to life."
And then he leaned down and pressed his lips against my own.
It started out tender, that kiss—his lips soft and gentle, his fingertips caressing my cheek. But the feel of his lips against mine made my desire flare, and in moments the hunger for more was blazing inside of me.
I leaned into him, feeling my breasts press against his broad chest. I wrapped my arms around his back, hugging his body against me. He kissed me harder, his mouth opening a little, his tongue slipping forward, and I parted my lips and let him in, feeling his tongue touching against mine in an incredible, delicious way.
He made a sound in his throat, low and ragged, almost like a growl. His hands dropped to my ass, grabbing hold of me, pulling me hard against the bulge at the front of his jeans. My dress was so short that I could feel the rough denim against my upper thighs. I opened my knees, straddling his leg, wanting more.
"Take me back to the room," I whispered. My heart thundered in my chest, making me feel almost breathless from my desire.
He smiled at me, his full lips slipping back to show his teeth, his eyes flashing with hunger.
"Good idea," he said.
We turned and started walking across the room, my arm around his waist, his arm over my shoulder. I was so filled with de
sire I nearly felt drunk from it, and the room seemed to lurch around me, the faces of all the people blurring past.
But then Trace paused.
I looked up at him, confused. He was looking over to our right.
We'd stopped near the kitchenette. I followed his gaze and saw Joey standing there, a shot glass dangling from his fingers, his eyes staring off into space.
My eyes flashed to the other people in the kitchen area, Becca and Sergio and the other guy I didn't know, all of them laughing like someone had just told a joke.
None of them had noticed that anything was out of the ordinary, yet.
"Joey," Trace said. "Joey, you alright?"
He didn't get any response.
Joey's eyes started to drift. The shot glass slipped from his fingers, clattered to the floor. All the color flooded out of his face, leaving his cheeks and his forehead as pale as a sheet of paper.
And then, like a marionette with its strings cut, Joey's body went slack and dropped to the floor. A moment later he started to shake.
"Christ," Trace said to me as he reached for his friend. "Can't catch a break, can we?"
Chapter 4
Trace
This wasn't the first time I'd seen Joey have a fit. In the first two years after we got signed to a major label, he'd had three. And following that particularly wild period in our lives, he'd had another seizure here and there—maybe three more that I'd been present for, all together.
That didn't mean it wasn't scary to see. And if you'd never seen it before, it might even have been terrifying.
His body dropped to the tile floor of the kitchenette. He rolled onto his back, his neck twisting sideways, his eyes going all white. His arms pulled up in front of his chest, his hands twisting to claws. Every muscle was drawn so tight that his whole body trembled.
I dropped to me knees and caught hold of him, pulling him onto his side. Sergio kneeled across from me—he'd pulled his shirt off and wadded it up, and he put it under Joey's head like a pillow.
Up above me, I heard Becca screaming. Apparently she had a real facility for it.
