Seven Minutes 'til Midnight

by Sunniva Dee

  I think of our last tour. I think of the video. He knows, immediately, and tells me to forget it all.

  “No!” I cry when his mouth releases mine and leaves only air over my face.

  “Shh. You’ll be okay.” He whispers it so low, it’s hard not to believe him.

  He kisses the dip at the center of my collarbone, and I can’t breathe. He’s hit some target only he knows, the red center of a dartboard where my breathing cuts off in favor of overwhelming desire.

  It pinwheels through me, the thought that nothing can feel as good as Troy’s lips moving over my breasts, sucking a nipple into his mouth. I arch on the mattress, needing more of me inside his mouth, and I’m dying, dying for more of him everywhere.

  I latch him close. Love the sensation of rough dreadlocks grating against my skin. His head against me, but then he shifts downward again, instigating hope and fear in one primal, pre-civilized reaction.

  I know it. I know what it is as I undulate against him, begging, pleading without words that he never let go. His fingers are thick and strong, making my flesh give to his touch.

  My hips are his, rocking, swiveling in his hold.

  My thighs open, and I’m all need and no shame, craving what he has. I’m the urgency of heres and nows.

  “Please,” I moan when his mouth breathes hot air along my pelvis. I’m so sensitive, and there’s nothing I want more than him sliding down to me.

  “Easy, baby. I’ll take care of you. Remember how good I take care of you? Do you?”

  Yes!

  He hikes my thighs up on his shoulders, my butt lifting off the sheets. Hot lips slide over my mound, and with perfect precision, they find my cleft, needing him—

  Never has a kiss been more—

  “Fuck!” I gasp, bucking against him. Steadying me in his hands he keeps me there, tolerating, riding this pleasure he gives. God, so good. More. More.

  He drops me. Brings me to my knees. Kisses my mouth with the same depth.

  Emil is there.

  He points at us, smiling and nodding.

  I wave him off, Not this time

  Go away

  but he has a towel we can use once we’re done

  Troy shakes his head, Don’t pay attention to him. He’s not here. We’re not doing this for him.

  But were we doing it for him the last time?

  and I’m about to come, and this can’t be happening like this—again—

  Troy! It’s Troy. This man is so much and nothing at all. My mind is a dark swirl, and then I rock down a tunnel I can’t get out of.

  I see him above me. I reach.

  I can’t get a hold of him.

  He wants to grasp me, but Emil is there. Where is Zoe? Where is Aishe?

  I wake up, gasping for air. I’m under my pillow in the hotel in Boston. It’s three in the morning. Far from wakeup time. Slowly, I fill my lungs with air. Throbbing with need from my dream-turned-nightmare, I’m deep in twisted reasoning, feeling bereaved.

  I remember how it is to be full of him, to give pleasure and take pleasure, the way we shared a gaze like that’s how you make love. We weren’t fucking, I think in my distorted after-dream mindset.

  We made love.

  My phone is on the night table. It’s lit up. My heart is thudding too fast, and there’s no way I can fall asleep again. I unplug it. Pick it up.

  Was dreaming of you.

  I have this sob in me.

  As long as it wasn’t a nightmare, I type back.

  “It’s a madhouse.” Troll’s face is dark when band and crew congregate in Bo and Nadia’s suite for breakfast. “I seriously haven’t seen anything like it. Janet?”

  The publicist steps forward, mascara already crusty at the corners like she’s been sleeping in it. She must not use makeup remover.

  “All right. First things first. We’re changing up the venue for tomorrow. Oasis has backed out of their reunion show, so we’ve been invited to take over the arena.”

  “We’re filling an arena in Boston?”

  “I know, crazy, right? Boston’s not a Clown Irruption stronghold, but the demand for tickets has been through the roof since the release of… well, both videos.” She snaps her fingers for further attention.

  “We also have to reschedule the two radio shows and the local TV station in Boston so we can fly to New York for big network appearances.”

  “Which channels again?” Emil asks, massaging the big muscle along one of Zoe’s shoulders. She tips her head to the side like a cat, enjoying it.

  “ABC, CNN, CBS, and FOX.”

  Half the room bursts into laughter.

  “Surreal,” I whisper to Waris.

  She smiles one of her too-innocent-for-a-porn-actress smiles back at me. “They’re hitting the jackpot like Isaias predicted they would.”

  I smile back, lifting my palm to accept her high-five. “They deserve it. They’re goddamn talented is what they are.”

  “And hot,” she supplies, waggling her brows a little and making me laugh.

  “You’re hitting it off with the crazy one?” I ask, jerking my head toward Elias. She purses her lips to avoid another big smile, but her eyes tell the story I was hoping for.

  “Friday Night Live,” Janet starts and makes everyone’s volume switch to non-existent. She purposely stops, gaze brimming with excitement. While she savors the moment, I widen my eyes at Troy. He slouches further into his seat in one of his panther-lazy poses. Then, he folds thick drummer’s arms over his chest, winks, and returns his stare to Janet.

  “What about FNL?” Hailey asks, wiggling a little on her chair.

  “Friday Night Live sorta kinda wants to have Clown Irruption over for a visit.”

  The room erupts with cheers. God, I’d love to watch it happen! I wonder if Clown Irruption would get complimentary audience tickets?

  “That’s crazy!” Zoe screams, and although Emil clearly already knows, he lifts her in the air and dances around with her.

  “I believe we’ll need some crew. I’ll leave that to you, Troll”—Janet nods to him—“but there’s one additional catch.”

  “What? What?” Hailey gasps.

  Wow. I’m doubting they’ll need merch sales at the FNL building, but no way I’ll be bursting Hailey’s bubble. The girl’s quite the character. Cute too; it’s like she could be Janet’s daughter. Blonde, fair-skinned, same size, and lots of pale makeup.

  “They’re requiring the assistance of the band in a few skits.”

  “Like funny skits? You didn’t tell us that. I’m not funny,” Elias says, all serious-like, which everyone snickers at. He stares from one person to the other. “What? No, for real. I mean, I can be funny with you guys, but that’s a whole different story.”

  “Yes. They want the band in a few skits, as well as the girls.” Janet’s stare travels to Nadia and Zoe.

  “We can’t do that,” Nadia says.

  “But what do they want, tho? Nadia, maybe we’re just supposed to be in the background.” Zoe slides out of Emil’s embrace and walks over to her friend. “Remember, you never thought you could be in a sex tape either, but now, look at you.”

  “We’re not doing anything you’re not comfortable with, darling,” Bo says. “Don’t even worry about it.”

  “But can you imagine how fun if we were all on FNL together?” Zoe says. “It’d be a freaking blast!”

  “Yass!” Emil cheers, forming a fist in the air.

  Nadia shakes her head, picks up Selena, and presses her close.

  “Shh, darling. We’ll do absolutely nothing that could compromise our family any further,” Bo murmurs.

  I think I just reached my limit of awesome for one day.

  Janet has more on that tablet of hers, the one she’s gripping tighter as she waits for the room to s
ettle down. Her expression holds a strange mixture of smugness and anxiety. How do you even do that?

  “Janet,” Bo speaks up. “So you’ve received news from FNL that the band is not privy to, it appears.”

  “Correct, and I’m sorry about that. It literally rolled into my inbox as this meeting started.” She tries for contrite, but in no way is she pulling it off. “Would you like to discuss it in a smaller setting?”

  Bo’s expression goes ice-blank, the way it tends to do courtesy of his Viking ancestry. “No. We have nothing to hide from our crew.”

  With a swipe of his wintery stare over the lot of us, he adds, “You’re here because we trust you not only with our music and what it means to us, but with our secrets too.”

  There’s a shift in the air. I haven’t heard of Clown Irruption intimacies sieving out from the inner circle before, and if I were to pinpoint the vibe around me, I’d deem it loyalty and gratefulness.

  Janet looks like she just had an epiphany. Maybe she didn’t realize how tightly knit their group is.

  “Anyway,” she says. “If FNL is to happen, they want the girls too, and not only Nadia and Zoe. Aishe and Waris need to be there too.”

  TROY

  I don’t know why I’m tasked with this.

  No. That’s not true. Of course, I know why I’m tasked with it. Buzzhead, our business manager, runs us the way he sees best. He wants Clown Irruption at the top of the Kilimanjaro of bands, and fuck if he isn’t going all out with these videos.

  “She won’t do it.” That was my statement to Janet. She tattled to Buzzhead (no way you can remember his real name with that haircut.) who has now called me directly. The guy doesn’t give anyone a break, and he’s happy to tell me Elias has already convinced Waris.

  “Waris. Is. A. Fucking. Porn. Star.” That’s how slowly I enunciate it to him. When he responds with silence that vibes And your point is?, I add, “And Aishe Xodyar is not.”

  “Just get her, Troy. This is huge. They’re booked a year out, but they’ll be scooting people over to fit you in. Clown Irruption—your fucking band, man—will be on FNL in just a few weeks! Do you see it? Can you even picture it?”

  “Yeah, but not at the cost of—”

  “Bo is working on his wife. The least you can do for your bandmates is to work on some hookup you had.”

  “A hookup?” The anger starts in my abdomen. It gets my cock hard, and it swells under my ribs. “Aishe and I were never a ‘hookup.’”

  “No? Forgive me, then. I have no idea what you call it nowadays,” Mr. Fifties Buzzcut says, and I want to slam him into a wall.

  “Why are you still in L.A. anyway?” I shout. “Shouldn’t you be here, trying to figure out this crap for your biggest fucking band right now?”

  It takes his smooth-talking ass a few seconds to respond. “Clown Irruption is only one of my responsibilities. I’m already spreading myself thin, here.”

  “Honestly, I doubt you have another band on your bill who pays you to juggle five TV shows and an FNL meeting in twenty-four hours, and if that doesn’t get your ass in gear for a little flight to New York, I won’t be voting for your contract renewal when it’s up. Tell you that much.”

  I still call Aishe afterward, and she picks up on the second ring.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “I’m not doing it.”

  “Yeah. I need to see you, though.”

  “Really, because you haven’t needed to see me since—” She cuts herself off with a swallow.

  “That’s because I don’t like to break truths to people who’ll suffer from them.”

  She doesn’t answer. Outside my window, the day is white, while we’re besieged in this hotel. The flight leaves for New York tonight. If Bo and I can’t convince Nadia and Aishe, the FNL opportunity might be gone forever.

  I’ve made too many mistakes as it is with this girl, though, and I’m not going to make another.

  “I dreamed about you too last night,” she says, “but it turned into a nightmare.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to have nightmares about me. Can you meet me at the fourth-floor gym? It’s to the left of the elevator.”

  “Why?”

  “I just wanna see you.”

  “Are we safe from the press there?”

  “Yeah. Irene’s checked it out already, and it’s tiny. People believe we use the elite club on the twelfth floor.”

  She lets out a sound I could interpret as humor. I’m in dire need of her enjoyment of anything.

  “Okay. Gym wear?” she asks, voice light enough to cause my hopes to jump.

  “Yeah. See you in fifteen. It’s a date.”

  “Not a date.”

  “Call it whatever you want.”

  TROY

  “Damn, girl. Are you trying to kill me?” I had no idea lacy tops with a neckline like that could be called workout gear. It’s so deep I see the swell of soft boobs.

  Her eyes were dark with worry when she entered, but my question stirs a shimmer of mirth into them. I like it. I like it a lot.

  “That one’s mine.” She points at the elliptical in front of the window, which broadcasts skies and gravel over a sloped roof.

  “You want my elliptical?” I ask for fun. “One, it’s got my name written all over it, and two, you’re a shorty, so you can only have small equipment.” I gesture toward the Wal-Mart version next to it. I don’t even think it’s plugged in.

  She huffs fake outrage and adds an eye-roll for effect. “You’re little. At least year-wise. Don’t think I don’t know, April baby; I’ve got three months on you.”

  I let my jaw slacken in mock incredulity. “Oh so that’s how this is going down?”

  “Seems like it.” She starts to climb up, turning her back to me. I know what she’s doing, though; she’s hiding a smile. Aishe and I, we used to laugh together. Fuck, I’ve missed this.

  Aishe gets going on the elliptical, pedaling slowly, round butt moving delicately as she does. The view is hypnotizing. I break free and move past her so closely I bump my shoulder into her side on the way.

  “Ow.” She side-eyes me mischievously.

  “Oh sorry, did I run into you? My bad.” I bite my lip. “But never mind me. I’mma just grab that little tricycle over there.”

  “Tricycle? You’re so ridiculous,” she laughs. “Stationary bikes are not tricycles.”

  “No?” I make a show of counting the wheels, then begrudgingly nodding that she’s right.

  We work out side by side, not talking at first. So much needs to be said, and who knows where to begin when she could walk off at any minute. I toss my shirt early on; my exercise tends to be explosive, and I’m usually drenched by the time I’m done.

  I wait until she’s worked up a light sheen of sweat before I speak up. “So… You had a nightmare about me?”

  “Yeah, we’re not going there, Troy.”

  “Okay.” I keep my eyes on her.

  She shrugs. “It was nothing. Just… the usual.”

  “Not sure what your usual dreams about me would be.”

  Aishe sends me a wary look. I realize she thinks I’m being coy, so I shake my head. “I really don’t.”

  Anger runs over her face. It’s quick and fleeting.

  “About that night?” I ask.

  “Maybe. Not sure which one you mean,” she says, and she’s right. With us, it’s been two. Two big encounters. But—

  “The second time wasn’t a night. It was during the day.”

  Dark red embarrassment streaks across her features. It makes her look extra warm. She would hate to learn that for a moment I picture her under me with an expression similar to this.

  “Okay, yeah. It was about that night. The Hotel Room.” She enunciates it like it’s capitalized.

  “Were we�
�� alone?” I ask, voice low.

  She stutters out a breath. “At first yes.”

  The elliptical groans under her feet. Has it groaned the whole time?

  “Then not?”

  “Right.”

  “Were we… okay until someone came?”

  She nods, dipping her chin against her throat while she trots and trots on the elliptical. I can’t see her expression anymore, with how she’s turned her face slightly away. I lean forward a little and catch the shine in an eye. It wants to brim over.

  I get off the stationary, swallow the few feet behind us, and turn her toward me. “I’m so sorry, Aishe. I wish I could rewind and redo that whole entire night. I would have taken you out for ice cream or something instead. Emil and I were both idiots. We still are.”

  Her hand falls, and she lets me take it. Opening my arms, I welcome her. For a second, she hesitates, but then she allows me to shift closer, until I’m holding her in a cautious hug.

  The moist scent of shower gel and girl sweat amps up my remorse, my need to erase everything we did.

  “You can stop saying you’re sorry,” she whispers. “I’m aware, and it doesn’t change how I feel. It’s got to do with me and how I accepted it all.”

  “We were goddamn persuasive. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “It’s whatever, Troy. Gotta get over it. It’s been a whole year, and the one time I tried to fix it, take control and dominate your feelings like you dominated mine, it backfired.” She drops her hands along her sides, not a part of this hug anymore. I still keep her with me, pressing against the hard steel of the elliptical in my effort to keep us joined.

  “What do you mean ‘backfired?’”

  She turns her head again, staring out the window, over small rocks and into a distant sky with no defining traits of interest.

  “Aishe. Talk to me.”

  “Haven’t we talked enough?” she snaps, sending me one of the fiery Gypsy glares I love.

  “Guess we talked a little before you left the tour,” I murmur, squeezing her shoulder while I let her go, “but I don’t think it was enough. And after the video shoot, you just folded your skirt back down. The goodbye you gave me sounded damn final.”