Back Stage

by T Gephart

  “I have a lot more where that came from.” Her blood-red lips twitched into a grin.

  Okay, so now I was even more confused as to what we were talking about. Not that I actually gave a shit. Nor did I care we had an audience.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing it.”

  What the actual fuck was I saying? Was I flirting? I resisted the urge to check if I still had my balls because of the raised eyebrows it might get me, but part of me had to wonder if they weren’t tucked away somewhere else.

  She leaned in, each word slower than it needed to be. “Good, I think you’ll enjoy it.”

  No seriously, what the hell were we talking about?

  “I can’t wait.”

  It was probably the most honest thing to come out of my mouth in the last twenty-four hours. I had no damn idea what I was agreeing to, except that I freaking well wanted it. Trouble? Sure, double fucking helping, right here. All my earlier thoughts about history getting a re-run were suddenly even more appealing. Which meant I was certifiable and should be committed.

  “So Jase and I are going to take off, got to get ready for our set. You guys going to hang around?”

  Oh yeah, Troy was still with me. Yeah, right. Had a show to play and everything. Best I shelve the crazy for a few hours.

  “We’re actually heading back to my place.” Rusty jumped in, big smile he’d been wearing since he’d stepped off stage. “Having a few drinks with some of our friends before we get on the road. Nothing crazy, but you guys are welcome if you want to stop by.”

  “Thanks, dude but with Megs being pregnant, she gets tired and—”

  “Yeah, sounds good. See you there.”

  My mouth opened and the words came out all by themselves. Boom. Like a five-year-old doing the I-want-go. My mouth and I didn’t really care for the stare-down we were getting. The biggest coming from Troy and not because I’d interrupted him.

  “Awesome.” Rusty clapped his hands together, rubbing them with anticipation. “Let me write down my address.” He grabbed a set list that had been gaffed to the wall and located a Sharpie on the floor. His barely legible scrawl printed on the page where I would be heading the minute I stepped off stage.

  This was such a bad idea. The folded paper scrunched into the pocket of my pants.

  “Awesome.”

  So my giving of the fuck you had made me feel better. Well, it had been more a singing of, rather than a giving, but the result was the same. Rusty was right. I was stronger than I thought.

  I am woman, hear me roar, and all that shit.

  It was great. I was great, and I might actually get through this whole tour without an addiction to anxiety meds. At least that’s how I was feeling until Rusty opened his big damn mouth.

  Sure, invite Jase into my safe place. Was he motherfucking insane? I wanted to kill him. The him was interchangeable. Rusty, Jason—blood was probably going to need to be shed.

  So my plans of easing into it were tossed out the window. Rusty giving me the “it would have been rude not to extend the invitation.” Yada, yada—not helping. I needed to roar god damn it. How was I supposed to roar if Jason Irwin was invading my personal space?

  New plan.

  My bubble was about to burst so I need to get my game face on. I had a feeling those fuck-yous I needed to be delivering were going to be after hours.

  Of course Rusty seemed pleased with the latest development. He was freaking ecstatic. It was his way of escalating the process, and if we got to hang out with big shots at the same time—well wasn’t that fantastic. You can only kill a person once, correct?

  Rus even had the nerve to ask me if I still loved him. Pfft. Excuse me while I laugh my ass off.

  Ass laughed completely off.

  I am standing here with no ass because that’s how much I laughed.

  There was no way I loved him.

  Not a chance.

  The appreciating of his fine form was okay though. I mean, the man looked good. I hadn’t suddenly developed blindness. Besides hormones clearly had nothing to do with your brain so that was totally allowed. Touching was not. I should probably remind myself of that a few more times.

  So given that Rusty always said all the best stories started with regret—he had been a regular Diane Sawyer of late¸ digging up shit and delivering with a smile—I was ready.

  Against my better judgment—the one that told me to go home—I was doing this.

  Meh, who needs judgment anyway?

  Famous. Last. Words.

  “Angie!” Joey pulled me through the doorway as I wandered into Rusty’s living room.

  Some blonde I didn’t recognize shoved a beer into my hand, her smile inviting conversation. She obviously didn’t know my reputation for not being a people person—or my lack of ability to chat.

  “Hey, how are you?” I nodded in her direction. See, I can be nice sometimes and I wasn’t looking to cock-block anyone. Besides, I was trying on my “being nice.” A practice run. It felt like wearing new shoes—tight, awkward and slightly uncomfortable. Unlike most girls, new shoes did not excite me. So the analogy was extremely apt.

  “Good, I’m so happy for you guys.” The mystery blonde was still there. Crap. “This is huge. I mean, it’s Power Station.” Her eyes widened as she said their name. It was the typical response, her voice changing tone to almost reverent proportion.

  “Yeah, it sure is.” Nod. Smile. Faux enthusiasm.

  “Of course I knew good things would happen for you guys. You are all so talented.” Her eyes floated to Joey who was currently involved in a very serious game of beer pong. I didn’t believe for a second she was talking about his ability to keep time.

  “Thanks.” Smile. Faux enthusiasm. Nod. It was good to mix it up.

  “Angie. Come do shots with me. We need to celebrate,” Max hollered from the kitchen, his shirt missing in action.

  “Well, bye.” I waved to the nameless blonde and silently thanked Max for saving me from any more small talk. In case you hadn’t guessed, it wasn’t my forte.

  “Ewwww, we’re drinking Jäger?” The brown liquid swished in the shot glass that had just been handed to me.

  “Yep, tequila is for pussies. Tonight we drink like men.” He threw the liquid down his throat as a point of punctuation. His hand reached for the bottle for a refill.

  “I’m not a man, Max.”

  “What? You’re telling me now? All this time I thought you were a dude.” Max’s face contorted in mock horror.

  “Har-Ha.” My elbow jabbed him in the ribs.

  “Drink.” His hand edged the glass closer to my mouth in encouragement. “I’ve already had three, you need to catch up.”

  The shot burned as it went down. The herbal grassy tang coated my mouth and I wanted to gag. Yuck.

  So even though I’d said I wasn’t a man, apparently I needed to drink like one. Max poured shot after shot of nasty cough-medicine tasting liquor down my throat.

  Honestly, give me tequila. It might be for pussies, but considering I had one of those, surely that made the drink more appropriate for me. Although my rising blood alcohol content sure was making me feel good.

  Wasn’t I supposed to roar or something?

  Hehehe.

  That lamp was looking at me funny.

  “And again!” Max’s eyes glazed with enthusiasm or perhaps it was from his Jäger haze as he tried to ply me with more of the nasty, brown liquor.

  “No more, just give me a beer.” My limit for shots reached as I pushed Max and the offending bottle away.

  My head had already started to cloud. As was probably my liver. My judgment had been gone from before I’d started to drink, so there were no surprises there.

  “How he doesn’t get hangovers is a mystery to me.” Beth, Max’s sometimes girlfriend gave me a hug.

  Unlike most female company, hers was one I actually liked. Her embrace wasn’t one I minded either; I generally wasn’t a hugger. The feel-good juice probably played a pa
rt too.

  “He goes from happy drunk to sober with no segue. It’s bullshit.” I hugged her back.

  She flicked her short black hair out of her eyes, her smile simmering as she watched him take another shot. She got a wink back in recognition. I guess tonight they were “together”.

  Rusty had predictably been in his bedroom, entertaining a redhead from NYU. Both of them emerged an hour or so later not even trying to hide their ruffled appearance. The pleased look on her face was the other hint. By all accounts, she’d received Rusty’s full service effort.

  The drinking continued, as did our friends’ constant congratulations and attention, which made me feel sort of weird. We were musicians, it’s not like we were curing cancer. Yet somehow playing a big show had elevated us to big deals, and I wasn’t so hot on the pedestal.

  At some point I passed out on the couch, my legs curled up under me. My grip slowly loosened on the bottle of beer I’d been holding, waking me before I spilled any.

  “Hey! There’s two of you.” The bottle was peeled from my hand before it had a chance to hit the floor as my eyes blinked at the body hovering above me. “And I hate both of you.”

  “I know you do.” Jason placed my half empty bottle on the coffee table before easing back into his seat. “But the other seats are taken so you’ll just have to put up with me.”

  He didn’t even try and sound sorry. Ass.

  The “fine” I huffed in response dripped with sarcasm, but I was too loaded to argue. The room was filled with bodies either dancing, passed out on the floor or occupying the limited chair space. But surely there was somewhere else he could sit, like for instance, in Staten Island.

  “You really hate me, don’t you?”

  “Oh come on, Jason. You can’t be that clueless. Don’t you have a college degree?”

  Ugh. I so did not want to have this conversation, and the room needed to stop spinning too. Both of those reasons contributing to my building nausea. And his sexy cologne needed to stop wafting up my nose too, that was rude.

  “I should have said goodbye properly, and I should have called you. That was a dick move.” He moved closer, bringing with him all that sexiness I was trying to avoid.

  “Yeah, there’s a lot of things that should have happened that night. Like me not fucking you.” Or him not fucking me. Let’s not get hung up on semantics.

  “You really regret it?” His eyes did that thing where they disarmed me. I hate them. Both of his beautiful, dark eyes.

  “No. Yes. No. I don’t know.” My mouth wouldn’t behave, not sticking to the standard line we’d rehearsed. It had been a mistake; I regretted it. That’s what my dumbass mouth should have said instead of babbling in indecision.

  “If I remember correctly, you told me that it had been the best you’d ever had.”

  Of course out of everything that happened, he would remember that tiny detail. My post sex euphoria had me spilling secrets he didn’t need to know.

  “Well I hadn’t had a lot to compare it to, the bar wasn’t that high.”

  Lies. Even now, no one had come close, but he would never be hearing that piece of information. He could torture me and I’d still never say, which incidentally is what it felt like as he sat there watching me.

  “Wow, you know how to crush an ego.” The bastard smiled, not even pretending to be hurt.

  “Like your ego could be crushed by lil-ole me. Crushing shit is your specialty. ” Shut up! My brain screamed. Damn Max and his bottle of man-drink. This would not turn into another clichéd drunken confessional.

  “Is that what it’s all about?” His head tilted as those gorgeous eyes I hated so much stayed glued to mine. “I crushed your ego?”

  No asshole, it was my heart. Thank God, I didn’t say it out loud. Instead I clamped my lips shut hoping to minimize the damage.

  “Angie, I’m sor—”

  My hand covered his mouth. The vibrations of his voice tingled against my palm. I couldn’t hear the word. Couldn’t hear him tell me he was sorry. I was drunk but not enough that hearing him apologize for that night wouldn’t crush me all over again. Why? Why did it still freaking hurt?

  Touching him hadn’t been the plan. His lips against my palm did things that confused me; it was like a memory and not one all together horrible. The familiar tug in my gut also added to the mental assault. Oh shit. As much as I wanted to, at that moment, I didn’t hate him. That was not a good sign.

  “Please don’t. Just don’t say sorry, okay?” I hadn’t meant to sound so vulnerable, so small, but that is exactly what my voice sounded like. I hated it.

  His eyes widened as he lowered my hand from his mouth, my fingers inadvertently interlocked with his. Great. So now my hands were against me too, my body literally rebelling.

  “Okay.” He nodded, and I wished I knew what he was agreeing to.

  “You want more beer?” My brain scrambled for something that would get me off that couch. Yes. Drinks. Getting him a drink would give me a reason to leave without running. Because running is exactly what I felt like I was doing.

  “I’m still full.” His head dipped to his beer on the coffee table—the twin of the one he’d saved from my hand—a swallow or two missing from the bottle.

  “Did you want to kiss me then?”

  Did I just say that out loud? No, it must have been in my head. It had to have been in my head. Oh God, please let it have been in my head.

  “Yes.”

  Fuck. I’d said it. If the yes wasn’t confirmation enough, the way he was looking at me was.

  “Why?”

  Another thing I probably shouldn’t have said but hey, why stop now?

  He didn’t answer, instead leaning over and brushing his lips against mine. It was slow. His touch, gentle as he moved my lips apart with his own. His tongue slowly traced the seam of my mouth, involuntarily I moaned as he nibbled on my bottom lower lip. It was my undoing.

  “Yes.” I wasn’t sure whom I was saying it to but with the one word he moved closer, pressing my body against him as his mouth continued to invade mine. Not content with just the lip contact I was getting, I pushed him back onto the seat and straddled him, the bulge in his jeans doing little to hide the hard-on he apparently had worked up.

  Still questioning my motives—and my sanity—I reached down between us and palmed him, working him with my hands. His lids lowered as a guttural “fuck” escaped through his parted lips. His body moved against my hand as I tried to reconcile what I was doing. Different parts of my brain were at war with each other as I moved my hand back up to his head and threaded my fingers through his hair.

  Tension, stress, alcohol, confusion or the fact I hadn’t had sex in over a month could have all been to blame. It was potluck as to why I had lowered myself onto him, using the hard-on pressing against the seam of his jeans to hit me in that sweet spot between my legs.

  My brain had obviously checked out as my body took over, our mouths ending up back together. Man, he knew how to kiss. The way he pulled my head in closer was a textbook panty-melting maneuver, and he used just the right amount of tongue. If the last time we’d kissed had been good, this was off the charts. Whatever he’d been doing in those years since had obviously been working for him.

  “Shit.”

  Like a bucket of cold water hitting my skin, my brain finally kicked in. My head snapping back as I registered what the hell I was doing i.e. making out with the enemy.

  “What am I doing?” The question could have been asked by either of us, although I wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer. “What are you doing?” While my shopping list of motivators were the reasons for my mistake, he had no excuse.

  “Fuck.” That cold shot of reality must have hit him too. “Angie …” There was more to that sentence, but he didn’t say it.

  “Okay, it was nothing. I’m drunk. I probably won’t remember this in the morning.” My mouth fumbled with an explanation.

  I was so going to remember this in the
morning.

  “That doesn’t make it better.” His eyes filled with an emotion I couldn’t read. Hell, in another five minutes I would have had sex with him.

  On the couch.

  In front of all these people.

  “I’m going to be sick.”

  And if he still had any urge to kiss me, I’m sure talk of vomit had eradicated it. My body almost levitated in the rush to climb off him, my feet desperate to get me to a bathroom. My hands that had been so interested in playing touchy-and-feely with Jason Irwin managed to not be total assholes and slam the door behind me.

  My fingers fumbled the lock closed before I made it to the toilet bowl and vomited. My body contorted in a full-body heave as I lost my battle with my stomach and threw up again.

  Awesome. Perfect end to the night.

  “Angie, are you okay?” Jason yelled through the door, the music doing it’s best to drown him out. Just as well. At least he hadn’t heard that.

  “Go away,” I half groaned as I turned on the faucet, my hand cupping the water and bringing it to my mouth. Never drinking with Max again. Ever.

  “Angie, just open up.”

  Had to hand it to him, he was persistent. Of course he was about ten years too late with the concerned friend routine. The better late than never did not apply here.

  “I’m fine.” I cursed through the closed door. Will be even better if you leave, I finished in my head.

  “I’ll leave as soon as I know you are okay.”

  Oh, so I had said that part too. I really needed to get a better handle on my freaking mouth.

  “Fuck.” One hand gripped the basin to keep my balance as the other shut off the faucet. My pale, smudgy-eyed reflection looked back at me from Rusty’s bathroom mirror.

  “I can stand here all night,” he threatened when I didn’t open the door. “Nowhere else I need to be.”

  My eyes narrowed as I flipped him off, the door unfortunately blocking his view of seeing it.

  “Flip me off all you want, I’m still standing here.”