by Sarah Grimm
No one gave her a second glance as she crossed the room, not until she flipped up the table covering and pulled a bottle of water from the cooler.
“You look like you know your way around here,” came a male voice from behind her. Too close behind her. Emma took a step to the side, startled.
“Maybe you could help me.” His smile made her skin crawl. “Where can we go that is private?”
“Who?” Him and his imaginary friend? There was no one else there.
“You and me.”
She slapped his hand away as he reached for her breast—correction, the all access pass hanging between her breasts. “Personal space, learn it.”
Heads turned and soon more people joined Mr. Grabby Hands in a half circle around her. The first was a redhead who regaled her with tales of Joe and how she was going to fuck him. Then came the questions: What relationship did she have with the band? Could she get their autographs? How about an introduction? One guy even tried to shove his CD into her hands while promising to get her fuck drunk if she would pass it to the band.
Sweet Jesus, these people were fucking insane.
She headed across the room, weaving through the crowd as best she could, finally hugging the wall before she made any headway. She stopped short when Bobby stepped in front of her.
“Hey,” he said, Cheshire cat grin in place. “You’re Emma, right?”
She had been re-introduced to the members of the band during their sound check, so he knew exactly who she was. “Yeah, that would be me.”
“You’re cute.”
“Ah, thanks, you are, too?” Big mistake, for he stepped in closer. Close enough she could smell the booze on his breath and the sweat on his skin. Unlike Joe, whose post-concert scent drove her wild, Bobby’s turned her stomach. “Excuse me.”
Emma stepped right.
Bobby stepped with her. “Cute, but not really Joe’s type.”
“Not the first time I’ve heard that today.”
“No?” He shifted closer.
“You’re really going to want to back off.”
“Why would I do that? Maybe you’re just playing hard to get.”
“I don’t think so.”
His gaze flitted over her body. “We could have a little fun, Joe won’t care. We’ve shared before.”
Jesus, what kind of people lived like this? Fakes and takers—users treating people like pawns on a chessboard, a means to an end. It all made her sick to her stomach. “Listen up, Poulsen. If you don’t get the hell away from me, you’re going to be singing soprano for the rest of the night. Why don’t you take your lame ass lines and arrogant bullshit and use them on someone else? Hey, you know what? There are a couple of yellow smiley babes standing behind you right now. I bet one of them would be interested in a man drunk enough he probably can’t even get it up.”
Someone started laughing. Great, because I wanted an audience. A glance over Bobby’s shoulder told her it was Steve.
Bobby took advantage of her distraction. He curled his hand around her upper arm and leaned in, making sure she felt his erection by pressing it against her side. “Make no mistake doll, I can get it up.”
And one swift kick to the junk would get it back down. “Take your dick off me,” she growled.
“Fuck’s sake, Bobby, you have a death wish?” Steve pulled Bobby away from her, his gaze bouncing off the man’s groin. “You did not just… I’ve seen the way Joe looks at this one. He’s going to beat the shit out of you for touching his girl.”
The dumb ass didn’t appear concerned. He flashed his teeth in a big smile. “Like hell. If Joe’s that into her, why is she out here with us while he hides away in his dressing room?”
“Walk away, Bobby,” Steve said, voice tight and furious.
Thank Christ, he did.
Emma took a deep breath and rubbed her temples. She popped the top on her water bottle and scanned the room. In those few minutes of tense conversation, the crowd had grown exponentially. Bodies were everywhere, mostly women. Tall and short, anorexic and plus size, blonde, brunette, and everything in between. Most with the same abhorrent pass. “Does this go on after every show?”
Standing a respectable distance away, Steve sipped his drink, ignoring the hopeful glances of the girls nearby. “You have to be more specific. I’m not sure what ‘this’ you are referring to.”
“The booze, the party, the massive amount of women with yellow smiles around their necks?”
He grinned—no teeth from this one. “Mostly.”
Emma frowned and swallowed some more water. “I’m guessing your roadies see a lot of action.”
“I suppose they do. I take it you object.”
“It’s disconcerting, seeing as over half the women in the room are sporting those smiles.”
“That’s the life, babe,” Steve replied with a shrug.
She cringed at the derogatory term. It certainly wasn’t an endearment. “Using people is your life? If so, babe, your life sucks. It’s not bad enough that nearly everyone in this room wants to use you, you have to return the favor?”
“Women want to get close to us,” he replied, no longer so cocky about it. “So they seek out ways to make that happen.”
It was more likely that his crew had learned to seek out women willing to do anything for the promise of getting close to the band. “That’s really the type of women you want to surround yourself with?”
“It’s a party. We want party people.”
A couple of girls were making out on the far side of the room, mouths and hands all over each other. Next to them two guys held their cell phones aloft, videotaping the action. A man sat slouched against a wall with a woman in a tiny sparkly dress in his lap. He fondled and kneaded her breasts, pinching at her nipples while she deep throated the tongue of the dude on her right.
But the exhibition that captured and held her gaze, was the girl rubbing herself against Bobby, tugging at his waistband, working his zipper down. Jesus, was she really going to drop to her knees and blow him in front of everyone? Charming.
“I can honestly say that your idea of a party and mine are worlds apart.”
Steve followed her line of sight. “Fuck.” He stepped over to the pair, muttering more expletives, pulling Bobby away from the girl before she could get more than one hand into his pants. “Whoa, mate, you color blind tonight?”
Color blind? Emma glanced back at the girl, noting for the first time the bright yellow blowjob smiley around her neck. Jesus. She was going to throw up.
She gave the group a wide berth as she bolted for the door and headed for the exit. She had to get out, away from it all. It was disgusting, the way they treated women. Hell, the way these women treated themselves was demoralizing. Her hands began to shake. Fresh air was a necessity.
“Emma.”
At the sound of her name, she looked up and spotted Joe, bottle of Jameson in his hand, standing outside the door of his dressing room with Gary. Fantastic. As if this night didn’t suck ass enough, she had drunk Joe to deal with. No, no, and oh, hell no. Emma walked right past them.
She rounded the last corner at a near jog. Just up ahead, at the end of the hall, was the exit. Her skin crawled. Her stomach rebelled. If one more person grabbed at her or offered sexual favors, if she witnessed just one more act of depravity, she was seriously going to lose her shit. Or hurl, it was still a toss-up which one would happen first. The door drew closer, she was nearly there, almost free.
A hand hooked her elbow and, God help her, she came out swinging. Still holding her elbow, Joe caught her fist with his other hand. The bottle of Jameson clattered to the floor at their feet, soaking her shoes. Fucking perfect.
The stench of whiskey engulfed them.
“Christ, Emma, what the fuck?” Since she was still struggling to break free, he used the weight of his body to stop her, pinning her against the wall.
“Let me go,” she snarled, gaze locked on that exit sign. “One drunken mauling i
s all I can take, thanks.”
The body pressed against hers went taut. “Someone touched you?”
“I need to leave.” She stared at her escape, so close yet so far away. “You have to let me leave.”
“Not until you talk to me. What happened?”
Emma focused on him for the first time. His mouth drawn tight, concern darkened his eyes. “So far tonight I’ve been told I was out of my league, someone offered to get me fuck drunk of all things, and oh, I was also asked if I’d be willing to arrange a hook up between you and a lovely redhead named Ginger of all things. Ginger was even kind enough to tell me she would start your evening of debauchery by sucking you off. She included a verbal description of how she imagined you would taste.”
“Christ.”
“Twice I was told how I’m not your type. Twice. I’ve been propositioned more times than I care to think about, and assured by the one that you have no problem sharing women, so hey, having a dick pressed against my hip wasn’t something I should get so upset about.”
His body tightened, his nostrils flared. “Who told you that? Give me a name.”
She pushed against his chest to no avail. “It doesn’t matter because I’ve had enough of this fucking place and everyone in it.” Her voice escalated to a near shout. “So, if you don’t mind, get off me!”
This time when she pushed him, Joe released her.
She made a beeline for the exit, slamming the push bar as hard as she could and shoving the door wide. The cool night air welcomed her and she sucked it in, forcing the smell of sweat soaked bodies from her nostrils. Sickening, it was all so very sickening. Unable to control the flood of adrenaline racing through her veins, she began to pace.
Joe followed her outside. Choosing a spot beneath the light, he leaned against the building, wisely keeping his distance.
“You want to fuck me, too?” she asked, her tone sounding foreign to her own ears. “How about right here? Beneath this light is as good a spot as any, right? Not like anyone around here seems to care if they have an audience.”
“I care,” he replied softly. “That’s not my thing.”
Emma stopped in her tracks and faced him. Hands in his front pockets, wet hair hanging in his eyes, his face all shadows and light…he was so damn handsome it hurt to look at him.
“And I don’t share. Maybe once or twice in the very beginning—”
“Stop, please.”
“—when I was young and stupid and we were just starting out.”
His admission didn’t help. “I never needed to know that,” she whispered, clutching her stomach. There was a very good chance she was going to be sick. “I don’t want that image in my head.”
“I would never share you. You’re mine, Emma. Do you hear me?”
The trembling started—adrenaline tinged with a boatload of disgust. “Is it always like this?” She wasn’t exactly certain why she was asking. Hadn’t Steve already told her it was? “How can you stand it, Joe? The petty jealousy runs rampant in this place. I mean, how do you know who your friends are?”
“I don’t. There’s no way to know who is here because they care about me and who just wants to use me. The options are endless—money, forge a friendship with me so I can introduce them to someone else, bragging rights.”
“Bragging rights?”
He shrugged. “Fuck a superstar, maybe you can eat off it for a week. Tell their story to the rag magazines or, better yet, manage to get pregnant and you’re set for life.”
“That’s repulsive.” She twisted the top off the water bottle still clutched in her hand and chugged. It wasn’t enough to remove the sour taste in her mouth. What was wrong with people? “Jesus, it’s too bad you dropped the whiskey. I could use some right now.”
“You don’t drink.”
“I could start.” If this was the kind of shit that went down night after night, it was no wonder he was an accomplished drinker.
“No,” he said softly, adamantly. “And to clarify your earlier statement, I am not drunk.”
She took a long hard look at him. He was right. Nothing about him said he’d had anything to drink. His damp hair could be from being onstage, but she would guess it was from a shower, as he hadn’t smelled like anything but soap as he’d pinned her to the wall. His words weren’t slurred in any way like they’d been that night on the phone. His eyes weren’t vulnerable and sad like they’d been the first night she’d met him. She didn’t know for certain, but imagined hiding emotions was far more difficult when drinking. Tonight, as he stood beneath that light not three feet from her, she couldn’t read him for nothing.
“Your world, Joe…I had no idea. How could I have even imagined?” He stood there, his dark eyes on her, silent and assessing. Her throat tightened, her eyes burned. “No wonder you seem so sad and lonely sometimes. You need me.”
“Yes.” He didn’t deny it, didn’t shy away from it, or pretend her words weren’t true. “But I think right now, you may just need me more. Come here, Sunshine. Let me hold you.”
Joe didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until Emma stepped into his arms and pressed her face against his chest. Christ, she was upset. Enough she had taken a swing at him. She’d meant business, too. If he hadn’t dropped the whiskey bottle, she would have connected with his jaw. Sick bastard he was, the thought made him smile. She had spirit, his ray of sunshine. He liked that about her.
Wrapping one arm around her middle, he eased her closer, snugging her against his body. She released a shuddered breath and he curled his other hand to the back of her head and pressed his cheek to her hair. He did his best to school his breathing, but it wasn’t easy. There was more than just anger flowing through her veins, riling her up. Someone had hurt her.
“Who manhandled you?” Pressed his dick against her hip is what she’d said. Fuck. He was going to break it off.
Emma shook her head then buried her face in his neck. Her arms tightened around him.
He was going to kill the bastard. Tear his balls off and shove them down his throat. Joe had firsthand knowledge of what it felt like to be mauled and pawed at. He was sporting the claw marks on his chest to prove it. It was bad enough when the women came after him, but at least he could get away. Emma wasn’t very big, and a man could overpower her fairly easily.
His body tightened at the thought. Bile crawled up the back of his throat. “Tell me who touched you.” There was no disguising the anger in his voice.
“Joe,” she whispered, her hands stroking his back, soothing him as she’d done after his interview. Her soothing him, instead of the other way around like it was supposed to be. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”
Her breathing leveled out, the trembling eased. Not wanting to stir her up again, Joe didn’t argue.
Her hands skimmed his body, almost like she couldn’t help herself. Not clawing desperation or groping, but the brush of her fingertips, a gentle caress. Christ, he needed it.
He’d walked off stage, stupid grin in place, knowing he’d find her waiting for him. Desperate to see her, touch and be touched by her. Only her: Emma. After a mere twenty-four hours, he was addicted. To the way she made him feel, how she made him complete. She was his new drug. And when she hadn’t been there, he’d gone in search of his old drug. This had done nothing but make him feel unworthy. He hadn’t lied to her, he wasn’t drunk. Not on whiskey, as he hadn’t consumed enough of it. But, as he stood outside that arena, sunshine in his arms, the brush of her hands over his chest, he knew he could get drunk on her. He was desperate for it.
“Come back inside,” he whispered, need making his voice husky. “We’ll go to my dressing room.”
“No! I’m not going back in there.” She pushed out of his arms, leaving him empty.
He tucked his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for her.
The wind picked up, the smell of rain in the air.
She shivered, reaching out, her fingers brushing his jaw. “The bus.”
He opened his mouth, then carefully closed it, not wanting to misinterpret her meaning.
She dropped her hand to his shoulder, smoothed it down his chest where she fisted the front of his shirt and tugged. “We’ll go to the bus.”
He licked his suddenly dry lips. “Okay.”
“Okay,” she repeated with a smile. Then she turned and headed for the bus, the sway of her hips in the moonlight drawing his gaze.
“Gare?” He didn’t need to look away from Emma to find the man. Gary was there somewhere, far enough away to allow their conversation to remain private, yet near enough to step in if anyone tried to interrupt. Sure enough, Gary materialized out of the shadows and walked to Joe’s side.
Joe met his gaze, no longer worried about keeping his emotions in check. “Find out who put their hands on her.”
“It’ll be my pleasure.”
“Just don’t touch him. The bastard is mine.”
April 20
Two days ago I wrote about my dream trip to Europe and how I would have to make it alone. But how quickly things can change! Yesterday, instead of getting on that flight to Scotland, I got on a flight to join Joe. Today I sit in the rear lounge of Blind Man’s Alibi’s tour bus while the band is away at an interview. We’re in Lake Charles, Louisiana, and while alone at this very moment, I am no longer alone.
No longer alone.
Just writing that makes my stomach flutter. I’ve been lonely for so long, it’s still a shock to my system, near impossible to imagine. I’d pinch myself to make certain I’m not dreaming, but the ache in my body does that for me. Oh, the aches! I never could have imagined. My body isn’t used to the workout I got last night. Or the one again this morning. Wow. He… It’s hard to explain, but I’ll try.
