by Sam Hall
“And what are you up to, butterfly?”
My head whipped back to see Liam looming in the doorway. His pupils were dilated, his grin crooked as he looked at me and then beyond.
“You warming our boy up in a whole other way? Well, I gotta see that. Wonder if his fingering’s improved.” He pushed past me, forcing me to back up or come face to face with his muscular chest. He did my job for me, closing the door and locking it, though that didn’t feel anywhere near as comfortable. He strolled over to where his brother scowled at him. He made a great show of breathing in the air. “Brother, you’ve got her perfuming like night blooming jasmine. What’s dampening our little butterfly’s knickers, and after that show in the bus too?” His eyes dropped to the guitar on its stand. “Do we have ourselves an honest to goodness groupie on our hands?”
“I need to take some more shots before your interviews,” I said, moving towards the door. “The Rutherglen—”
“Sit. Down.”
Liam was a prick, there was no two ways about it. The guys had said it was all five of them that had visited my dreams, but I was pretty damn sure Liam had little to do with it. How could he? He was a pushy arsehole, and couldn’t seem to keep his shitty comments or opinions to himself for more than a second. But there was a crack in his voice that had both of us planting our butts at his command. He had to be aiming to be the Hartley, to step out from under Rutherglen and forge his own path, and someone had to be lord. As he took a seat beside his brother, his eyes on me, he smiled.
“Like seeing our boy’s fingers dance, do ya?”
He reached up and tousled Johnno’s hair, who responded by shoving his elbow into his brother’s ribs. He winced at that, but rallied pretty quickly. I noted that Johnno picked up his guitar though, my eyes tracking the way his hands cradled the instrument. I flicked my camera into video mode out of instinct, while Liam rattled off a few notes as if to warm up his throat.
“So what are we playing, brother?” Johnno said, shooting him a sidelong look.
“What about ‘Ache’?” he replied with a grin, but that soon failed. He shook his head, then that same brittle light flared in his eyes. “‘Layla.’ Let’s sing ‘Layla’…for the fans.”
“‘Layla’? You mean the Clapton—?” Liam nodded. “OK, 70s or 90s version?”
“Now version,” Liam said. “Tempo halfway between the two.”
Johnno shook his head and frowned, then played the opening riff to a song I’d heard plenty of times on the golden oldies stations.
Except now there was something raw and completely unpolished about it all, especially when Liam sang the first line. His trademark rasp gave the already desperate tone to the song a whole other depth. I dropped my eyes to the camera, needing it, the glass between me and him. I couldn’t look at those bright blue eyes for one more minute. So I shot the song.
I now understood why videographers used several cameras when shooting video, because there was just too much to record. The grit of Johnno’s teeth as he plucked out the notes, the press of their bodies against each other, the flex of the muscles in Johnno’s arms as he played. Then there was Liam.
I’m pretty sure I low key hated him, except when he was singing or fucking. It was like if he didn’t have something useful to do with his mouth, out came a steady stream of arrogant shit. But there was none of that right now. Instead, he sang the song like it was a plea, a demand, an abject description of his current state. I fought to keep my hands on the camera, to keep directing the lens where it should be, because here, now, he was the man from my dreams. The one who told me in a hoarse voice how much he fucking wanted me, needed me.
I blinked when the last note fell away, and a shit-eating grin plastered across Liam’s face.
“Damn, butterfly. You’re gonna cause a riot tonight.” He stood, towering over me, forcing me to crane the lens upwards to keep capturing him, until he pushed the camera to one side, leaving just me and him.
And Johnno. “Liam…” he growled.
“I’d find you drenching those expensive knickers Marlow gave you if I slid my hand down the front of those fucking amazing jeans, wouldn’t I?”
Old Liam was back, but rather than crass or difficult, this one was hypnotic. Those blue eyes held mine, refusing to let me go as he moved in closer.
“Spread those legs for me, Kira. Let me undo those buttons, slide those pants down off that fucking lush arse, and I’ll be your bloody slave. Let me carry the taste of you throughout the whole performance. I’ll sing every damn song for you, I promise.”
He was the one who parted my legs, nudging them open with a knee and stepping quickly into the gap before I could think to stop him. And when the warm weight of him settled against me, I couldn’t think why I would want to. My dreams and reality overlaid each other too damn well, creating this old familiar feeling to what he did, that he always sang songs to me, that pressing up so close that I could feel his hardness was all just part of our relationship. I felt like molten honey when Johnno sat down beside me on the bench. Being wedged up against the two Hartleys felt like the most natural thing in the world, and my only gripe was that I had one side free with no one touching it.
Wait, what?
“We can share,” Liam said, as he tilted my chin upwards, and part of me watched him lean down to bestow a kiss on my lips like this was the greatest show on earth. “We haven’t done that in ages.”
“For good fucking reason. You’re not pushing her past her limits.”
“Being an obedient little preceptor? Yeah, all right. I just need a fucking taste. I could barely sleep with that damn bloom in my nose and down my throat. I’ve put sugar cookies on the rider, and all of us have been sniffing them. I want to see if she’s as sweet as she smells.”
“No.”
The word came out completely unconsciously, yet when it did, I felt as if someone had splashed me with cold water. I looked from one Hartley to another, and that didn’t help at all. The door was locked, no one was going to come in here, and damn if a large part of me didn’t want to do exactly as Liam said. Strip off and ride his face, see if that mouth was just as clever between my thighs. And what was to stop me? They’d frozen at my command, but some of the indecision raging within me obviously bled through as they leaned closer.
I put my hand on the camera and stood up.
“Against that wall,” I said, going toe to toe with The Changelings’ singer.
“What?” Johnno said, but Liam just backed up.
“You wanna take the whip hand? All right, butterfly. I’ll see where this goes.”
“Not for sex, you dickhead,” I said. “God, if you want to eat me out so badly, you’d have a much better chance if you just shut the fuck up. You’re smoking hot, I dreamed of having sex with you over and over, and you’re the singer in my favourite band. Seriously, the only reason why you haven’t been balls deep before now is because of you. Does this arrogant dickbag shit actually work? Or is it just a hurdle the Concubines et al. have to work past to get to all of this?” I gestured to his undoubtedly splendid form.
The smirk dropped, his arms crossed his broad chest, and those blue eyes went a whole lot colder. “What do you want?”
“Do you need me to do this job, or was this just a ruse to get me into the orgy bed?”
“It’s real. We’re building something…” Liam shook his head, not willing to go further, apparently. “You have a very particular skill, and we’d want you on tour, no matter what you were or looked like.”
“So distracting me from my job isn’t wise then.”
“No. You still haven’t said what you want.”
I let out a long sigh, my fingers tightening around the camera grip. What did I want? The noose off my neck, the freedom to just explore this brand new world. In some ways, his name for me was right. I wanted to flitter about like the butterfly he named me for, going from one thing to another without consequence. But I couldn’t say that to Liam. He was offering me a t
ransaction to get what he wanted. So what did I want?
I thought of that sweet kiss, the coffee, the custom-made shirt Marlow had made for me. I could bear a lot with him around, and it looked like it was going to be difficult to see much of him outside of work, so I said, “I want Marlow in your bus as often as he likes. He can come and go as he pleases, see me, sleep with me…” There were more things I wanted him to be allowed to do, but suddenly, I couldn’t find the words to say them.
Johnno just sighed, rubbing his face.
“For a taste of you? Done. Shimmy out of those jeans, babe, because I’ve—”
“No, you said a taste,” I said, stopping Liam from coming any closer with an outstretched hand. “One taste.”
He chuckled. “OK. Stop backing up, butterfly. You run? Just makes me want to chase you more.”
So I stood there, my preceptor watching what was going on with heavily lidded eyes, noting every single move we made but not interfering yet. I liked that about Johnno now. He seemed to sense that I needed to go out on my own limb and not have him protect me all the time.
“And what would you do if you caught me, Liam? What do you actually want? You’ve been pushing me since I transitioned, and for what? Say I pulled my jeans down, you push my undies to one side and you shove yourself into me, fucking me until you come. Then what? How would it be any different than doing the same with any one of the willing women outside? You don’t want me. You just don’t like that you can’t have me.”
For a second, those eyes grew colder and colder, then he said, “You have no idea what I want. Now give me my taste. I need to warm up, and I want it with you down my throat.”
I hissed out my frustration, his smile returning when my hands went to my waistband, but he wasn’t going to get exactly what he wanted. I shoved my hand down the front of my pants, stifling a gasp as I swept through my sodden folds. He was right—I was fucking turned on. He was about to complain, but I yanked my fingers out, my clit throbbing sulkily in protest, and then shoved them into his mouth.
The silence, the look of surprise on his face? It was all worth it. Until his hand closed over my wrist, stopping me from pulling away. He licked every single scrap of me from my fingers, the room filled with the lewd sounds of his sucking and licking.
“Just like sugar cookies,” he said, then let me go. “Stay close to the wings during the concert. I want to be able to look over and see you watching us at any point in time during the performance. I’ll assign a couple of security guys to make that happen. Afterwards is when the real work starts. Once the last of the humans have left, the local fae will come out. We hold court here, do a meet and greet, and deals take place. I need Johnno with me tonight.” He ignored Johnno’s protest pointedly. “Show Hartley has a united front. Pick one of the boys. Not Marlow, he’s not enough. Whoever you choose will be your minder, and you’ll need one,” he said when I went to protest. “Sweet, powerful things like you will get eaten up. You do this on your own? You’ll find yourself bound to some other arseholes who’ll be a lot crueller than me, and end up fucked long and often to bring your power to the surface, then have it drained for the edification of the court. Find that Aen bloke, be good to have him show up for this. Something like him, that’ll curb the worst excesses.” He turned to Johnno one last time before heading for the door. “Warm up. I don’t want your hand crapping out, and fingering her doesn’t count.”
A weird hollow calm settled over the room when he left. Johnno got to his feet, looking far from happy, but I was glad for his presence when he drew me into a hug.
“This isn’t the way I wanted things to go. It never does when Liam’s around.”
“It’s not so bad, honest,” I said, and then pulled his head down to kiss him, feeling that selfsame twinge of familiarity I felt when around his brother. It was weird, kissing lips that felt so strange yet everyday, all at the same time.
He was the one pulling away this time.
“I can’t right now. I thought dream Kira had me by the balls, but the real thing is so fucking seductive. It’s taking everything I have not to bend you over that bench and thrust myself into you with one long stroke.” He caught the sharp intake of my breath as a vicious throb pulsed inside me, wanting exactly that. “Aen said we should woo you. I’m trying. I want you to get to know me, us before…”
“Before you give me what I want,” I said, sliding my hand down the front of his pants. We smiled into each other’s lips as I found him hard and ready, and he dropped light little kisses on my mouth before pulling away.
“I’m gonna have to rub one out and then air out this room. Your fucking scent, Kira.” He picked up his guitar. “Choose one of the guys for tonight. Promise me. Go and talk to them now and sort it out. Tell them that they need to stay sharp.”
I emerged out into the hallway, blinking. This place, these guys—they were like drugs. They took away space, time, will, and just made me want to strip off and throw myself into them. Made me want them to touch me everywhere while I touched them.
“How are we going with the promo images?” Marlow said. “What I saw looked good. The video was a nice choice. You don’t get a lot of Hartley on Hartley clips anymore.”
“Um…I’m just heading into the next room now.”
Marlow’s smile slowly spread.
“A bit intense was it? Smells like it was.”
“If by intense you mean really fucking horny, then yes.”
“Look, you have no idea how much I want to help you out with that, but this is…”
I looked around at the people filing past.
“Crazy. I know. I’m going. We really need to meet up later. I did a deal with Liam. You can come on our bus anytime you want.”
“Yeah? You did that for me?” There was something shy, almost tentative about his smile. “What did you have to offer him?”
“A taste of me. He got to lick my fingers.”
That made him laugh.
“Well, all right. You seem to be holding your own here. Trust your instincts and chase that story.”
I carried Marlow’s words with me as I strolled into the next room.
Billy sat in an armchair at the end of the narrow room, his guitar across his lap. I hovered there in the doorway, watching Billy’s fingers dance over the fretboard. His fingers moved as if of their own volition. Johnno was an amazing player, someone who could easily have been a lead guitarist in any other band, but watching Billy, I could see why they chose him. He didn’t play the guitar—he was it. He didn’t need to focus on notes or fingering or strumming. To play was the same as breathing, something he did on automatic. Rather, it was me that disturbed his playing, the pace of the notes slowing, then becoming this dazzling ripple of picking that seemed to fold back on itself. His hand slowed, and he looked up.
“And what are you doing here, butterfly?”
“Ah, Marlow asked for some shots.”
“Well, then, better come into my parlour.”
He smiled, slow, sly, crooked, and then jerked his head to the bench on the far wall, his fingers moving as I did, a sinuous kind of soundtrack marking my approach.
He watched me closely, noting the distance I’d chosen to leave between us and the long sigh I let out as I sat down.
“So you’re just cool with me—” I said.
“Take what you need from me, butterfly.”
I saw a flash of white teeth as my hands went instantly to my camera, raising it to my eye. I hadn’t felt it as much since I’d gotten off the plane, but as those almost black eyes watched everything I did, I found I needed that buffer.
For the first time, I wondered if looking through the viewfinder would help at all. Rather, it made me focus on the guitarist in ways I hadn’t before. He seemed to have a uniform—a loose, silky black button-down shirt, open wide at the neck to reveal a very fine pair of collarbones and a whole lot of lean, bronzed flesh and leather pants. Black scrawling tattoos disappeared under the fabric, telling
secrets I’d never discover. I took photo after photo, having to work my way up to a head shot, and the smile he wore told me he realised that. The lens stared at him, and he stared back, looking beyond the glass to where I sat. I felt speared through by that dark gaze, caught in those unfathomable depths for god knows how long until he said, “Take your photo, Kira.”
I did, belatedly, just to justify my temporary aneurysm. I didn’t frame the shot or anything, and had to do that with the next. I needed to take him apart with my lens, shoot him in black and white, somehow flatten him into a series of shadows and highlights. His fingers stilled, slapping down on the strings and preventing any further sound from coming out.
“You have something to ask.”
“How the—”
“You’re all squirmy and having trouble focussing, so it’s either that or…” His voice trailed away, his eyes jerking up as someone came into the room. We both turned to see Lucas in the doorway.
“I’ll come back. I need to work on that key change in the second part of—”
“Sit down,” Billy said.
I watched the muscle in Lucas’ jaw work as he looked from me to Billy and back again. He sighed, then shook his head and moved past me so he could connect his bass to the amp.
Bloody hell, he was big. It felt like he towered over me as he stood there, and the feeling wasn’t especially alleviated when he sat down. All of the men were in freaking amazing shape, rippling with lean muscle, but Lucas was something else. Those pale blue eyes met mine, catching me taking in those massive biceps that popped as his hands went to the instruments.
“And what are you doing here?” he said, his tone anything but friendly. The slight frown on his face deepened as I raised the camera.
I got him clearly focussed in the viewfinder, wanting to capture the exact moment of his reply, then asked, “Why do you dislike me so much?”
