Riding for a Fall (Get Your Rocks Off Book 2)

by Sam Hall

  She didn’t get that far, her lips were stretched obscenely around his thick shaft, his hands tangling in her hair, trying to force her down further. He gave it a few good shoves, then yanked her free, and she gasped for breath in response.

  “You’re in. Go to the catering tent and get some food, then take a shower in one of the portable facilities. Ask someone for directions inside. Next.”

  It was only now my lens was directed at the rest of the dock, capturing the long line of bodies waiting for their chance to audition. The next was a fascinating figure. He had a slender frame, but the muscles on it were well defined. All he wore was an old pair of jeans, no shirt, no shoes, and he had a long mane of hair. He smiled as he stepped up, stopping for a moment to take the roadie in.

  “Oh, Daddy…” he purred. “I feel like I should be paying you for the privilege. You boys packing something similar?” He jerked his head at the man’s now rigid dick. The other two guys drew closer, all of them scanning the guy’s spare frame. “Well, c’mon then. Let’s get this party started.”

  For a second, there was only the sound of zippers being lowered and then the very enthusiastic moans of the guy as he sank to his knees. He grabbed one dick and licked another, switching off with a remarkable enthusiasm. The roadies seemed somewhat taken aback, then seemed to get into the act. They thrust their dicks at the other man, slapping his face, aiming for his mouth, his hands, anything to get more of him. He laughed, a crazy high thing, and then bent himself to that task. I caught the look of bliss on his face as things seemed to escalate.

  I forced my finger to stay on the shutter release, capturing image after image of the men’s faces, contorted now into animalistic mask. I wasn’t sure what the deal with this guy was, maybe his finesse level was just so high he was driving them mad, but it was hard to see why. It seemed to be a sloppy, messy thing, with drool and dicks flying everywhere. Then the guy on his knees pulled back.

  “Circe,” he called out to the line of people waiting in line.

  “’Scuse me, coming though.”

  I caught the moment she emerged from the line. She might have been dressed like a bedraggled black bird, but this girl was all sleek raven. Long waves of black hair fell down her back, her eyes made up with an elaborate palette of smoky eyeshadow. She walked like a queen, drawing every eye. Well, most of them. The three roadies didn’t spare her a glance, getting increasingly violent in their attempts to get their dicks down the man’s throat. He was forced to wrap his hands around the bases of two of them, somehow holding them off with his wiry arms.

  “C’mon, sister dear,” he said. “The help is revolting.”

  “Like you don’t love it,” she tutted with a sly smile, stalking over to the men on spiked boots. She ran her hand over one man’s shoulder, stroking her fingers across his skin, but when she pulled them away, they were crusted with a red substance that looked like crystallised sugar. “Mmm…” she purred before sticking them into her mouth and sucking off the residue. “These are ripe, Bran. Milk them harder.”

  “Trying my fucking hardest,” he said through gritted teeth as the roadie he didn’t have in hand battered his face with his huge dick.

  “What the fuck are you…” I turned to see a large man with a clipboard in his hand was now standing next to me, surveying the scene. He watched the men clamour to get to Bran’s mouth. “You bloody idiots,” clipboard dude said, slapping his burden down on a stack of cases and striding over to the five of them. One hand grabbed a chunk of Bran’s hair and another of Circe’s, to the musical sound of their yowls. He hauled them away, booting one of the roadies when he tried to reconnect with them. He threw them against the wall, the two of them finding each other so quickly, it was as if they were magnets. Slender limbs curled around their sibling’s shoulders, bodies shrunk down to provide as small a target as possible, eyes went big, brown, and luminous.

  “Quit the beaten child act. You’re drainers.”

  “I prefer the term gancanagh,” Bran said.

  “Fuck off. You’re about as Irish as my arse. What’re you? Little drainers that took a bite of someone they shouldn’t?” the man said.

  “Well—” Bran started to say with an elaborate twist of his hands.

  “Shut up, you. Let’s hear from the girl with the cock sucking lips.”

  “House Hazel,” she said, her voice this smoky rasp. “And no, I didn’t want to take enough bites, so our lady tossed us out on our ear. We heard Hartley doesn’t mind our kind.”

  “Not when they start chewing on court members. You want to prove yourself? Petition for entry?”

  This provoked a reaction from them, and the people in the line. The roadies seemed to come to, shaking their heads, then moving to stop them from surging forward.

  “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Bran said, tangling his fingers in his sister’s hair.

  “You’re right. One of the bosses does have a soft spot for your kind. If you keep your bites to those outside of Hartley, you’ll do alright. Go on. Keep your fangs to yourself and hit the catering tent, then go to wardrobe to get some clothes.”

  “Right you are,” Bran said, sketching a bow and scrambling to his feet, tugging his sister after him. They were a picture of abject gratitude until they got past the man, then they linked arms and strode towards the entrance.

  He slowed them down when he spotted me, his pretty eyes taking me in. He steered Circe over in my direction, frowning slightly, then smiling.

  “Well, well, what do we have here?”

  Circe took longer to notice me, her eyes widening slightly when they did.

  “Your betters, is what we are.” We all looked up to see Jen standing behind them, her hands on her hips. “How’d you get out here with the petitioners?” she asked me, but she glanced over at the two siblings. “Scat, little crows, go and find something else to pick over, because if I catch you within an inch of Kira…”

  “Cool your jets, heir of Rutherglen,” Circe said, shouldering in front of her brother, her body providing a neat shield for them. “We know the way this works.”

  She flicked the ragged fabric of her skirt, making her look like a Regency romantic lead rather than semi-destitute, then stalked off with her brother in tow. He shot us a measuring look over his shoulder, but kept on going.

  “Shooting the local wildlife?” Jen said, nodding to my camera. “You’ve got to be careful. Some of them should be in cages.”

  “Cages seem to be a recurring theme in the conversations I’m having. What the fuck, Jen? Are we really condoning keeping people like zoo animals?”

  She blew out a breath. “You weren’t raised in this life, have only just caught a glimpse of the world you’re stepping into. In some ways, I wish you had accepted Marlow, though I understand why that wouldn’t have worked. We could have staged this, kept you at the estate, slowly introduced you to people. Instead…” She cast a quick eye over the people milling around us. “You’ve been thrown into the deep end and…I guess it’s time to swim. Has Johnno talked to you about your power yet?”

  “Not mine, just a general thing. How we generate it.” I remembered that little session with Aen with a flush that made Jen laugh.

  “Right, well, some of us are great generators, some of us are amazing wielders, some can’t generate any at all, or rather, they generate what they need to lure others closer, so they can drain them. That’s what those two are. They’re dangerous, Ki, seriously dangerous, especially to someone like you. If I had to guess, I’d think you’re a super generator, someone who will keep generating power long after most of us would burn out. To them you’re like a doubled dipped Tim Tam when you’re dieting.”

  “When have you ever dieted?” I said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Sometimes Vervain prompts me to go on these juice cleanses for my skin but… I’m digressing. Stay with one of us at all times after the show, Ki, even during. Fae, it’s a dog eat dog world, and I don’t want anyone taking a bite out of yo
u until we’ve had a chance to properly train you on how to use your powers.”

  “What are my powers? Everyone keeps going on about them, but I have no idea what they’re talking about.”

  “That’s part of working with your preceptor, you work out what you have an affinity for. Mine’s ice primarily.” She performed a little gesture with her hands that created a curling twist of water vapour in the air, that rapidly hardened, then she flicked it, sending the frozen water slamming into the wall.

  “Ice.”

  “Well, yeah. It’s something I got from my mum, apparently.”

  “Ice.”

  “I believe that has been established. What’s wrong with you? Did they get a taste of you?”

  “You have white blonde hair, big blue eyes, and you can conjure ice from the air.” A big grin spread across my face, something that had her puzzled, then groaning. “Are you going to make me sing it, because I totally will.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I mean I’m not Idina Menzel but—”

  “Shut. Up.”

  “Yes, Queen Elsa.”

  “How about you stop photographing roadies getting blow jobs and come and see the support act play? They’re called The Devil’s Rejects. Daddy’s considering signing them.”

  “Of course, my queen.”

  6

  “Is the show about to start?” Jen asked Marlow as we arrived at the wings of the stage.

  The show? I peered out beyond the curtains and saw it. What had been a cavernous empty space was now packed to the rafters with people. As if my realising they were there allowed me to hear them, I felt the many voices chatting all at once like a wave. While it had obviously been there since before I got here, it felt like the noise just rose and rose and rose, until I could feel it physically pressing against my body.

  “You’re glowing,” Jen said with a gentle smile. I looked down, and sure enough, I was. “This, this is our biggest power generator. Older civilisations held religious rites, Dionysus held bacchanals, we hold concerts. Look.” She pointed to the great arch that was The Changelings logo, which was always part of the backdrop to their shows. The huge teardrop of glass that hung from the centre started to glow in response to the energy. “That’s where it goes.”

  “You strip energy from the crowd?” I said with a frown.

  “No, we harvest what they give us. They come here, dance, scream, sing along. They exhaust themselves throwing everything they’ve got into the night, then go home completely trashed, and why? Because they love it, because for a moment, they want something bigger than themselves to surrender to. They give us that energy because of what it does for them, and after a good night’s sleep, they’re fine again. It’s OK, Ki. You’ll see.”

  Evidently, I would. My eyes whipped around at the sounds of masculine shouts, a group of guys in regulation denim and leather whooping it up as they ran through the backstage area towards the stage. I jerked back as a weird reverberating sound blasted through the speakers, and before I could question that, I could hear flames crackling and a raven cawing soon joining it. Then came the laugh. The low down, dirty, evil-slash-sexy sound of someone about to do something terribly wrong and they just don’t give a fuck if they do. The laughter filled the auditorium, getting louder and louder, until it silenced the crowd. As if in response to this acquiescence, the disembodied voice said, “Welcome to Hell, bitches.”

  The support band brushed past us like we were nothing, running out on stage and grabbing instruments with lightning speed.

  “One… Two… Three… Four!” the lead singer shouted, and then the concert started with a bang.

  I’d listened to a lot of music over the years, usually playing it on my headphones when I was working. The shutting out of all external stimuli and the throb of sound as it reverberated through me brought on a flow state, where it felt like my consciousness was shoved to one side and I just was. Compositing photos, making tweaks and adjustments, working and listening and working and listening, until finally, the complaints of my body made it clear how long I’d been at this. So being so sensitive to music, I had figured I’d know how I’d respond to a live performance. I was wrong.

  My skin flared brighter at the sound of the first bar, as if in sympathy for the band. I had no idea who The Devil’s Rejects were, but I could no more ignore them than I could turn away. Their first song crashed into being—guitars, drums all declaring to one and all that they were not here to fuck around. I listened to the throbbing beat, my heartbeat ratcheting up to match their frenetic pace. It jerked me along, willing or not, and then the lead singer stepped up.

  He had that high, caterwauling kind of voice that Josh Kiska of Greta Van Fleet had, cutting through the raucous sound of the band with a piercing five alarm wail. I watched members of the audience stand up, take notice, stop talking to the person next to them, and focus, drinks forgotten. The song was a call to arms, and people were considering joining up.

  My eyes flicked to the right when the guitarist strode forward, feeling that selfsame twist in my core as he prowled, his hands shifting rapidly over his instrument as he provided a yowling counterpoint to the vocals. My gaze kept moving, as each time a musician did something, it jerked my attention. My fingers twitched, to tap out the frantic beat, to grab, do something in response to this pumping beat.

  “Looking for this, my flower?”

  I twisted to see Aen standing beside me, a gentle, carnivorous smile on his face, like he would eat me up, but he’d do so with considerable care. Instead, he pushed my camera into my hands. His arms went around me, his skin glowing brighter in response to that contact, and drew my back against his chest.

  “Time to see,” he said, putting a hand under mine and bringing the camera to my eye. I looked down the viewfinder, at the crowd, at the band, at the great glowing stone of power hanging above them. I felt Aen’s soft kisses against my neck as I captured them all, shot after shot after shot. I knew the story here. Jen was right—this was a rite, and I was the cool-eyed observer, capturing it all, trying to freeze all the energy surging here and ultimately failing. You couldn’t capture lightning in a bottle, but you could provide enough glimpses to bring others to try and do the same.

  The singer was a writhing snake of lust and anger on the lens, sometimes moving so fast he became a blur, at other times sinuous in his movements, hypnotising the audience with the shift of his body. The drummer had a kind of deadly contained energy as he sat like a rock, smacking out the beat with relentless intent, not letting anything deter him. The guitarists criss crossed the stage, playing to the crowd and each other.

  And they were responding, the flat eyed looks of the fans of another band starting to thaw. People moved, danced, punched the air, some even sung along. They were a great sluggish ocean, but the band stirred them, a slow moving response initially that gained momentum, and I caught it all.

  At first, the power exchange was purely one sided, the band putting all the energy into the relationship, singing their songs, playing their instruments. They performed this complex ritual that seemed so simple. The strutting across stage, the singing into each other’s microphones, the free for all playing between the band members were all rock clichés, but here and now, with the throb of their Marshall stacks vibrating through me, that didn’t seem to matter. The rockers were inviting the audience in with their antics, enticing them to let go.

  Because when they did, their power was greater than the sum of its parts. There was a loss of a certain stiffness and self-consciousness when the band saw people starting to respond. The crowd even seemed to seek permission from others, looking around to see the others react before doing so themselves, but once a critical mass had been achieved, it was contagious. I caught the transmission of power, from one person to another, from one group outwards. The band started to dial the theatrics back a little, still giving a high energy performance, but it was as if they were making room for the audience to take some of the control.

>   “Damn girl!” Marlow said, flicking his finger across his tablet, looking at my photographs. “You’re on fire!”

  And I was. Well, my brain was, my eyes were. They burned in their sockets, and my hand spasmed from gripping the camera for so long. What had felt like a nice hefty weight was now a millstone, holding me down. But I needed holding down. I’d looked and looked and looked, until there was nothing left but my gaze. I arched under Aen’s persistent caresses, his hands, his lips, the feel of his body feeling like the only thing that kept me grounded.

  I jumped within his grip as the Reject’s ran off stage. How could that be? My eyes searched the amphitheatre, seeing the roadies rushing out to dismantle the supporting act’s gear and replace it with The Changelings’. It felt like the set had only just begun, but by the flushed faces and sweaty clothes of the band as they walked past, I had evidence to suggest otherwise.

  “Did well, man,” Johnno said, slapping the hand of one of the guitarists.

  “Thanks! That crowd is fucking going off! We’re gonna raise the goddamn roof tonight.”

  There was a whole lot of raucous dissection of the performance with the other Changelings, but Johnno’s eyes strayed to me.

  I ached for him. I don’t know why, but that weird burned out feeling only roared hotter at the sight of him.

  “Reach for him, flower,” Aen said, his voice a buzz in my ear.

  I held out my hand, and he appeared beside me, linking our fingers, his eyes raking over me.

  “She OK?” he asked Aen.

  “She’s generating a massive amount of energy, and she’s not tied to your reservoir yet. Take some from her if you can.”

  “Yes…” I hissed as he leaned in, some of that too much-slash-not enough feeling settling as soon as his skin touched mine. The more his body pressed against me, the better I felt. So it was only natural to lean up, tug his head down and kiss him.

  He made a small sound, almost like a child whimpering in their sleep as the connection was made. Boom! Whatever it was inside me that directed my camera rushed out towards him, needing more—more connection, more energy, more links, more power. Just more.