by T. Torrest
That is one talented band up there, and Jack is ripping the hell out of his groove. His fingers move in a frantic blur along the strings; his pelvis is thrusting against the back of his axe in time with the beat. I’ve never wanted to be a guitar more in my life.
I am sooo going to let him do me doggy style.
Thunderjug plays a wide range of songs, covering a three-decade catalog of music from classic rock to modern alternative. They look like they’re having a great time and the crowd soon catches their contagious mood. People begin dancing and singing along. Over the next ten songs, the throng’s enthusiasm builds into a fevered pitch.
And this is the best thing about music. The heart-pumping frenzy of hundreds—or even thousands—of people all sharing the same rush. The way you can feel it coursing through your blood, under your skin, straight into your brain, either recalling or creating a memory.
When they play “Shambala,” I’m reminded of the time Dad’s car got that flat tire on the Parkway, and instead of spending the day at the beach like we had planned, we spent it playing charades at the service station. When they play “Peace, Love, and Understanding,” it brings back images of Vix and me on our seventeenth birthday, cruising around in our shared POS Camry, free at last. And when they play “No Rain,” Jack is on backup vocals, and his voice shoots through me like I’ve been tasered. I know Bee Girl is being replaced in my mind with the very new visual of Jack moaning into the mic.
But then, before I know it, the band is taking its first break, the DJ is blasting out some filler music, and here’s Jack, heading right for us with those damned teeth.
He says hello to the guys as Monty hands him a drink, directing him over to Vix first, then me.
He takes one step in my direction, narrowing the small space between us, and holy shit if the guy isn’t the sexiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on.
Sooo hot. Want to touch the hiney.
His skin is glistening in a silvery sheen, his hairline damp with sweat. He gives a swipe across his face with a towel before taking a swig from his water bottle with that talented mouth of his. His eyes finally meet mine as his eyebrows rise, his lip twitching into a perfect smirk. It’s the kind of crooked smile that practically oozes Let’s fuck.
He doesn’t need to ask me twice.
Or at all, for that matter.
My brain is running in a constant loop of do me do me do me do me, but my mouth pulls it together enough to say—or rather, yell, “Hey, you guys sound really great up there!”
“Thanks,” he says in the same deep timbre of his singing voice.
“I would have gone with ‘Interstate Love Song’ over ‘Vasoline’ for my STP pick, though. ‘Big Empty’ is my favorite off of Purple, but I know it wouldn’t mesh with the whole bar vibe thing.”
That throws him. I guess he wasn’t expecting a rundown of Stone Temple Pilots’ latest album. Or his set list, for that matter.
He lowers an eyebrow and says, “Everyone’s a critic. What, are you in a band or something?”
“Nope. I just know music.”
I watch Jack’s baffled expression and assess that he is even better looking up close than I’d first thought when he was on stage. My stomach does this weird squidgy thing, watching as his smooth jaw tightens on a repressed smile.
Damn. Great eyes. Blue? Green?
The smirk is still on his face as he asks, “Hey… Did Monty say your name is Vampira?”
I didn’t realize that Monty had said that. What a dork.
“Um... It’s actually Livia. Or Liv, most of the time.”
He takes another swig of his water and adds, “He also said you were a twin.”
That immediately gets my feathers up. If he turns out to be one of those sicko perverts who tries to work an angle to get Vix and me both into bed, I’m going to gently remove his head from his neck. You can’t believe the bullshit we have to put up with on a daily basis; when most guys hear twins, it automatically translates in their twisted minds as threesome.
But instead of putting the moves on, he asks, “So which one of you is the evil one?”
I’m relieved that he’s not a freak, but my God. There’re only so many times I can be asked the same questions in my life. My eyes roll as I shoot back, “Never heard that one before. For the record, we’re both evil.”
He totally cracks up. “I’ll bet.”
I start to ask him about his second set when some random girl with Susan Powter hair appears between us.
“Hi Jack,” she purrs into his face, slipping a hand around the back of his neck. “You guys were great tonight.”
Jack politely removes her arm from around his person. “Thanks.”
“Hey, where are you going after this? We were going to hit the beach at Fifty-Third Street.”
“Yeah, maybe I’ll meet you over there or something.”
Crap. There goes my night of debauchery.
He doesn’t say anything more to her after that, so Hotsie Twatsie takes the hint and slithers back into the crowd. Jack leans in toward me and offers in a low tattle out the corner of his mouth, “I’m not meeting her over there.”
That makes me laugh.
I’m not much one for conversation prior to hooking up, but I’m kind of obligated to make a bit of small talk with Jack, seeing as the guy is a friend of my friends. That isn’t ever the case with my other rock conquests. Most of the time, I just want them to shut up, look pretty, and get down to business. But I figure there isn’t any harm in getting to know the guy before I jump his bones. It’s not like we can slip away until after his show is over anyway.
Therefore, I entertain his question when he asks, “So what have you got against our set list?”
“I don’t,” I answer. “I thought it was great so far. I’ll have to see what you do during Round Two before I make my final decision.”
He gives a chuckle and asks, “Well, what are you hoping to hear?”
“I don’t know. You’ve got a good mix going on right now. Maybe some more older stuff? You do any Zeppelin?”
“From time to time.”
“Beatles?”
“Maybe.”
“Clapton?”
“I do. Thunderjug doesn’t.”
“No ‘After Midnight’?”
“Nope.”
“No ‘Bell-Bottom Blues’?”
Out of nowhere, Ronnie spins around and pipes in with, “Dude. I love that song! You should add it to your set list.”
I want to shoot back with, Dude. You shouldn’t eavesdrop on other people’s conversations, but Jack answers him before I can. “It’s a tough one to play.”
“Yeah, but it’s killer,” Ron says. “Clapton must have fucked up royally to write that thing. Have you ever heard anything more excruciating in your entire life?”
I stare at my friend in awe. “Ron, I never took you for the romantic type.”
“Are you kidding?” He drops his head and shakes it. “Rips my heart out every time I hear it.”
“I didn’t know you had one,” I snark.
That makes the both of them laugh.
“Jack writes one hell of an awesome song himself. He wrote ‘Backyard,’ you know,” Ron offers with an eyebrow wiggle.
Jack seems uncomfortable with the spilling of such news, but I can’t help but be impressed. “Your band’s one hit song was all your doing?”
Before he can answer, Ron gives Jack a nudge. “Told ya chicks dig that shit,” he supplies helpfully before pulling an Irish Goodbye.
Jack and I are left shaking our heads at our retreating friend. Smooth, Ron.
“So, it’s true?” I ask, not letting the subject drop.
“About chicks digging musicians? What do you think?”
“Wiseass.”
He chuckles, gives a shrug, and tries to sound humble, “I scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish…”
My hippie parents
had influenced a Beat-phase in my teen years, so I know every word of the poem he just cited. I find myself gawking at him, open-mouthed, completely blown away. “Are you quoting Howl at me?”
He doesn’t answer, and instead, just... looks at me. There’s a quick pause where he’s no longer smiling and I’m just... waiting. For what, I have no idea.
He leans in slowly with a roguish look on his face which is so fucking hot and dirty, it makes me want to tear him to pieces without a second thought. Jack’s sudden nearness is unexpected, and my goddamn pulse is actually skyrocketing as his face comes closer to mine.
But instead of kissing me, he doesn’t stop his advance until his chest is against my shoulder and his mouth is an inch from my ear, his nose stealing an inhale.
His breath ruffles against my hair as he lets out a snicker and whispers, “You’ve got one hell of a mouth on you, you know that?”
“What?” I’m only taken aback because I’m pretty sure he’s talking about my actual mouth, not the dirty words normally spewing out of it.
He pulls back to stare down at me with an incredibly hot, lazy grin, and I’m struck dumb because of it. The heated shift to our encounter has come out of nowhere and it’s not often that someone gets the jump on me with something shock-worthy.
He must misinterpret my stunned expression, because he’s still smiling that crooked smile at me when he says, “There’s more going on between these ears than a pretty face, Lips.”
I catch a quick wink from him as he turns and weaves his way over to the guys again, leaving me completely stunned and flustered. He’s talking animatedly with his friends about the first set while I’m feeling like I’ve just been fucked and left for dead right here on the dance floor.
I finally shake myself out of the stupor and sidle up to Vix as I watch some chick in a skintight, leopard-print dress try to file her way through the crowd toward us. She has a blinders-on focus aimed at Jack and a come-hither attitude in her eyes.
I know that look. Hell, I invented it. That chick has “trouble” written all over her.
Jack detects the girl beelining his way when he suddenly excuses himself to head back on stage for the second set. Leopard Girl looks crushed for a moment before Ronnie notices her and moves in. Lord only knows what he’s saying to her because she’s giving him an evil little grin as he ushers her over to the bar to buy her a drink.
Tommy sees the exchange, too. “I guess that’s the last of Ronnie for the night.”
And the last of Leopard Girl.
Thank you, Ronnie.
CHAPTER 5
Friday, Saturday, May 27, 1995
12:15 AM
The Tradewinds
Sea Bright
Thunderjug reopens with Van Halen’s “Unchained” which throws the crowd back into an excited frenzy. They bring the mood down a notch with Radiohead’s “Creep” and then explode into “Machinehead” by Bush. They play a dozen more songs borrowed from bands like The Beatles, Squeeze, and Green Day before beautifully executing an electric, upbeat rendition of Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice” which I absolutely fall in love with.
They play a few original songs before launching into “Backyard”… and that’s when the place goes nuts. It doesn’t take me long to realize why.
Jack has been singing backup for most of the songs all night. But for “Backyard,” he’s on lead vocals. I snicker to myself while noticing that most of the ruckus is being caused by the women in the audience.
I think it’s almost a shame that all these people seemed to be waiting all night to hear one little song when everything the band played has been great. Hell. I came here tonight with that same motivation, but they’d won me over long before they got around to playing their hit. Even still, as they belt out their signature song with unyielding energy, I find myself fighting the urge to rush the stage, too. Instead, I try not to notice how good Jack looks, all sweaty and jumping around up there.
Yum.
I only briefly consider how our hooking up might cause a problem. I’ve never been confronted with a musician that had any ties to my real life. But I quickly shake off my reservations, realizing that it isn’t going to stop me. This guy is pure catnip for a rock chick like me.
The song ends, and the place erupts in applause as Thunderjug closes with a funky version of the theme song from “The Banana Splits.” It’s very funny and unexpected and the crowd goes even more wild when it’s over. With a quick “Thank you,” the band leaves the stage. A few guys run out to help break down the equipment as the DJ sets up to play for the remainder of the night.
Jack comes back over to Monty, Tom, Vix, and me looking exhausted and out of breath, save for an elated smile and gleaming eyes. He has a towel wrapped around his neck as he motions to the bartender for a drink of water and downs it quickly. The bartender must be familiar with this routine, because when Jack returns his empty water bottle to the bar, a beer is waiting for him. He takes a sizable swig before turning his attentions to me.
“So, do we suck or what?”
I assume he’s kidding, so I play along. “You blew.”
He swipes his face with the towel and gives a shake to his head. “I can’t believe I broke a string in the middle of ‘Monkey Man’.”
I realize he actually has no idea that nobody even noticed, and that everyone in the place seemed to love the performance. Especially the female members of the multitude who, at present, are slowly closing around our little clan like a silent, calculating, menacing horde.
If Jack notices the peculiar overabundance of women in our vicinity, he doesn’t show it. He’s still busy berating himself for the minor mishap he’d had on stage, and inspecting the welt where the string had snapped against his forearm.
I ask, “What, are you kidding? You guys are good.” Taking notice of his red arm I add, “Are you okay?”
I watch as his knit brow relaxes before his eyes spark with gratitude.
They’re gray. Holy shit, he has gray eyes.
“Oh, yeah. This is nothing. It happens from time to time,” he says, freeing me from my concern before acknowledging the compliment, “And... thanks, Liv.”
There is nothing quite like the flippy feeling you get in your belly the first time a hot new guy says your name out loud.
Jack mistakes the look on my face for confusion. “What, am I supposed to call you Vampira? Not likely.”
I raise an eyebrow and smile out, “And Thunderjug makes sense?”
He laughs and shoots back, “Touché.”
I’m about to ask him just exactly what a thunderjug is anyway, when he announces he needs to use the bathroom. I figure it’s as good a time as any to call down to the girls and let them know we won’t be making it there until tomorrow. “I’ll go with you.”
CHAPTER 6
Saturday, May 27, 1995
1:46 AM
The Tradewinds
Sea Bright
We have to cross over the crowded dance floor in order to shortcut to the other side of the large club. Jack is trying to carve out a path for us both when I see him inexplicably reach his hand behind him and blindly grab for mine. I just as inexplicably put my hand in his, and have the oddest feeling as we weave our way through the crowd.
It’s kind of… electric in a weird sort of way. Our palms are flattened against one another’s, our fingers intertwined... It’s as though we’ve performed this act naturally a million times over, not just for the first time one minute ago. The thought has me baffled, but fascinated nonetheless.
Before I know it, he’s led me over to the payphones situated near the restrooms. He gives my hand a quick squeeze before releasing his hold and ducking into the men’s room.
When Jack lets go, I’m surprised at the loss that washes over me. What the hell was that? I don’t even know the guy and he has me sweating from simply holding his hand? I can’t even imagine what holding his dick will be like. I’ll probably pass out.
I spend like an hou
r digging through the ton of junk in my purse to find the number for the beach house, but it finally appears and I make the call. Even though I’m not in the main part of the club, it’s still loud, and I burrow into the alcove as much as I can while covering my free ear with my hand in order to hear.
Samantha answers.
“Hey, Sammy! What are you doing there? I thought you were sick.”
“I was. But I slammed down a few Sudafed and managed to catch the girls before they left. Where are you?”
“Tradewinds,” I shoot back. “Came to see a band.”
“Any good?”
“Yeah, actually. They’re fantastic.”
I glance up to find Jack leaning against the wall having a cigarette, waiting for me. Fuck. He heard that.
“So, I’m going to assume you’ll be spending the night elsewhere?” Sam chuckles at her dig, but it’s not like I can take offense. My girls know me too well.
“Well, yeah, but not because... We ran into Monty. We’re crashing there tonight.”
I thought Jack would’ve headed back to our friends, but instead, he’s just standing there watching me as I talk to Sam. His eyes are squinted as he blows smoke through those delectable lips, practically begging me to suck on them for the next twelve hours or so. Give or take.
“Lucky bitch. Tell him we said hi.”
“I will.”
Before I can get another word out, I suddenly feel the length of Jack’s body pressed against my back. What the hell? It catches me by surprise, to say the least.
He chuckles against my hair as he swipes it away and lowers his lips to the back of my neck, my skin shivering at the touch. The whole time, I’m trying to have a human conversation with Sam, no easy feat while this dark prince is ravaging me from behind. I guess he isn’t planning on wasting any time before getting this party started, and that is just fine by me. I’m more than game.
I snap back to the real world when I hear Sammy taunt, “Well, have fuuun!”
