by T. Torrest
By the time Thunderjug dives into “Backyard,” the energy has reached a fevered high. I’m right in the middle of it all, jumping and dancing along, sweating my ass off, having a blast. Jack almost flubs the lyrics when he chuckles, watching me out on the dance floor boogying away like a maniac. I don’t care that my moves are only slightly better than Elaine Benes’s at a company party. I’m having fun.
They segue into Led Zep’s “Moby Dick”—also new—and there’s only the slightest bit of panic when I think about Jimmy having to tackle that fricking drum solo.
But not enough to leave this spot.
I’m sweating bullets. I’m out of breath. I’m suddenly being pushed through the crowd.
What the hell? I turn to see that it’s Jack’s hands on my shoulders, walking me over to the side of the stage. Without a word, he slips into the sliver of space between the wall and the humongous stack of Marshalls, pulling me inside the black hollow of its housing.
And then he crushes our mouths together.
As Jimmy’s drumming rips against my ears, Jack’s kiss tears across my lips. He’s sweatier than I am and we’re both out of breath, but oxygen isn’t our biggest concern right now.
He pulls back just enough to scratch out, “We’ve got eleven minutes. Twelve if Jimmy’s really feeling it.”
I bite my lip, barely able to contain my excitement. “We can do a lot of damage in that time.”
“That’s what I’m counting on.”
He slips a hand under my knee to hitch my leg over his hip, and I follow suit with the other one. I’ve got my feet braced against one wall of the wooden box and my back plastered against the other as Jack rams his hips against me, shoving his tongue down my throat.
I grab the back of his wet hair in my fist and pull—hard—and he returns the attack by shoving a slick hand up my shirt and squeezing my breast. I bite his lip for that. He rips my bra to the side. I scratch my nails down his back. He slams his hard-on against my shorts…
…I almost pass out.
He’s got one hand on my breast as the other slides down my side, around to the small of my back, slipping his fingers under the waistband of my shorts, palming my ass. Skin to skin, he grasps a cheek in his hand and pulls me tighter against his body, rolling his hips against me and groaning into my mouth.
I think I’m going to die. My heart is about to explode—along with every other atom in my body—as this dark prince ravages me behind a goddamn speaker, for chrissakes.
Oh my God he is so hot.
Hot enough that I can overlook our less-than-romantic setting and get lost in this moment, because I know O-Town is only a short trip away.
Checking my watch, I see that we still have eight minutes left. Maybe nine.
He lifts my damp shirt up to my neck and lowers his mouth to my exposed breast. He tongues it hungrily before closing his teeth over my skin—lightly, but hard enough to send an electrical charge racing through my nervous system. When I bite his ear, he removes his hands from under my ass, grabs both my tits in his hands and shoves my back against the wall.
Reaching above my head, I find a metal bar to grasp onto, and between my grip on that and my feet pressed into the opposite wall, I’m able to maintain our position. Every time I slacken my hold, I sink down against his hardened length, crashing into me along with the beat as he sucks and licks and drives me insane. The man is a machine. Ohmygod yes. Keep going.
Jack’s fingers dig into my front, my back, clamping my body to his as he slams me repeatedly against the wall. I’m appreciative of the narrow space, giving me some added leverage. Jack’s about six foot four (and full of muscles—ha!), but even this fine specimen can’t possibly possess the superhuman strength necessary to hold me aloft long enough to get the deed done.
Judging by his penile stamina, you wouldn’t know that, however.
“Jesus, Liv,” he growls, “I’m fucking dying for you.”
His lips smash against my mouth once again as I lower my feet to the floor and palm the front of his jeans. He’s hard as a rock as I run my hand along his length, moaning into his mouth, trying not to scream.
I check my watch. Six minutes. Maybe seven.
I tear at the buttons of his shirt, allowing myself exactly one minute to run my hands along his slick chest, down to his abs, feeling his wet, bumpy hardness under my palms. My heart is beating along with the thumpetathumpetathumpthumpthump of Jimmy’s drums as I get the buttons of his jeans undone, and holy hell, I can’t believe he’s not stopping me.
Out of nowhere, Jack tears his mouth from mine, his eyes wide. “Oh shit!”
“What?” I ask, still caught in our trance.
“The fucking song!” he says, and he doesn’t need to say anything more. I listen for about half a second, long enough to realize that Jimmy’s solo is winding down way ahead of schedule and Jack is about to miss his entrance cue.
Goddammit!
We pull ourselves together as best we can; Jack only allows himself enough time to button his fly before he slips out of the speaker, grabs his guitar, and hops back on stage mid-chord.
He is noticeably late, and between the evil grin on his face and his state of undress, it’s obvious to every person in this room what he’s been up to. His shirt is unbuttoned down to his waist, his hair is a tangled mess, and he’s got sweat dripping from every pore. He looks like he’s just been fucked, and the audience responds accordingly, raising their drinks amidst hoots and howls, toasting their god.
His snarl is liquid sex as he leers at me from the stage. I’m fairly certain the look he’s aiming at me has just melted my clothes off. I actually take a quick scan down my body, expecting to see my shirt and shorts reduced to a puddle on the floor.
But nope. I’m still fully dressed.
Dammit.
CHAPTER 24
Date #7: Friday, June 30, 1995
5:24 PM
Pacific Ave.
Atlantic City
I know Jack was hoping to grab a quick nap before the sound check tonight, but it doesn’t look like we’re going to be working with that kind of time. He had to wait for me to get out of work—Shana refused to close her doors any earlier than two o’clock for the holiday weekend—and we got caught in Parkway traffic. I hope we can find the damn hotel already and check in, but I’m starting to think that Jack won’t be left with much more time than it will take to haul ass over to Caesar’s and set up for the show. You’d think a room at the venue itself would’ve been comped for the talent, but I guess Thunderjug doesn’t carry that kind of weight yet. We’re currently cruising the main drag of Atlantic City, searching for the Days Inn.
Where the hell is this place?
Sure enough, the sign appears in my vision.
“It’s a Burger Barn, Gilbert!” I shout as I point at our destination.
We drive past the building and Jack swings the van into the south lot. I hop out and give a good stretch before throwing my purse over my shoulder and leaping onto Jack’s back. He wraps his arms under my legs and piggybacks me across the parking lot into the lobby.
The place is not exactly what I was expecting.
Kinda dirty. Small. Really, really seedy. There’s an overweight guy at the front desk wearing a wife-beater, his comb-over blowing in the breeze from a dirty metal fan, his feet propped up on the counter reading a magazine—I don’t want to know which one.
Yikes. What a dive.
The “concierge” doesn’t even raise his head when Jack greets him with, “We’ve got reservations?” As if that isn’t the understatement of the day. “Under John Cocktoaston?”
I snicker to myself, well aware that Freddie was the one to arrange our accommodations. I’ll have to remember to congratulate him for his name choice.
At first, the guy looks at Jack like he’s speaking another language. But suddenly, he closes the magazine, straightens up, and starts organizing the papers strewn across the counter, as if he just this second realizes we’r
e paying customers. “You made a reservation? Do you remember who you talked to?”
“No, man. My buddy set it up.”
“Well, did we quote you a price?”
What the hell is this? Doesn’t he know how much his own hotel charges?
“Yeah. Seventy dollars for the night. Some special or something,” Jack answers, losing patience by the minute.
Wife Beater digs under the counter and pulls out a form for him to sign while I wander around the tiny lobby, scoping the space out. I’m trying very hard not to touch anything.
One can hardly blame me.
Jack signs the form, pays in cash, and is handed a key. “Room two-oh-one. “Outside, up the stairwell, first room at the top of the stairs.”
“Thanks,” Jack says. “Hey Liv. We’re all set.”
The two of us head back out to the parking lot so Jack can grab his guitars out of the van and lock up the rest of the equipment, explaining, “I don’t trust this place.”
We make our way up the stairs... and pass an actual fucking hooker on her way down.
What the what?
After she’s out of earshot, I ask, “What the hell kind of place is this? You’d think a national chain would be a little…”
“Less disgusting?”
“Took the words right out of my mouth.”
There’s a guy at the other end of the balcony, screaming something angry in a foreign language to the hooker, now down in the parking lot. Jack puts the key in the doorknob as he speaks the very words I’m thinking. “Where are we?”
He opens the door and I realize we have our answer.
“Hell. I think we’re in Hell.”
CHAPTER 25
Friday, June 30, 1995
5:45 PM
The Devil’s Asshole
Atlantic City
It’s hot outside today, but my God. It’s practically an oven inside the room. The heated dank greets us from the first swing of the door, and doesn’t let up even when Jack manages to punch the air conditioner into submission.
I haven’t moved beyond the doorway, however. I flip on the light switch, then immediately turn it back off. I don’t think I want to see the place in any great detail.
The first thing I notice is the bed. Huge four-poster with an ugly, lacquer canopy, the mattress covered in a dingy floral bedspread and accented with four, flat pillows in mismatched cases. Two dark brown nightstands frame the shiny, black headboard, and a painted green dresser occupies the wall across from it. Rotting wallpaper—two different patterns—peels away from the walls at every seam, and the dim light shining through the window highlights what I assume was once a sheer white curtain. A scrungy bookcase holds a television (with a tin foil antennae) and an opened mini fridge (which is defrosting the layer of snow within, melting into a puddle of dark maroon on the carpet beneath it).
I am speechless.
Jack turns from the air conditioner and laughs when he sees my stunned expression. “Stick with me, baby. Look at the life of luxury I can provide.”
I tell him that I’m afraid to look in the bathroom, so he accompanies me to check it out. Avocado toilet, pink tub, white sink… I’ve never seen anything like it in my life.
“I can’t,” I offer, feeling dizzy and unable to finish my sentence. “This is worse than a Rutgers frat house. I need to lie down.”
I pinch the comforter between the tips of two fingers and pull it off the bed—not only is it nine thousand degrees in here, but there is no way I’m letting that disgusting thing touch my body even if it were freezing—and am pleasantly surprised to find some clean white sheets underneath. I strip off my Citizen Dick T-shirt and jean shorts but leave on my bra and undies, trying to cool off in any way possible until the air kicks in.
I see Jack staring at me, but I don’t have the patience to deal with him right at the moment. “Deal with it,” I offer, before kicking off my Dr. Scholl’s. “God. I hope it cools off before I have to take a shower. There’s no way I’ll be able to blow dry my hair in this heat. Tell me again why Caesar’s didn’t comp us a room?”
“Speaking of rooms, I’d better try and track down which ones the rest of the guys are in. You gonna be okay by yourself for a little bit?”
I start to tell him, “Of course,” as I flop down onto the lumpy bed, but wind up cracking up instead.
Jack pokes his head under the canopy to check out what’s so funny. All I can do is point above me and laugh. He looks up and almost chokes. “Mirrors? Seriously? Where the hell are we?”
“I think we’ve already established that we’re in Hell.”
He climbs onto the bed and lays down next to me, the both of us laughing at our reflections in the ceiling mirror. “Please remind me to check for dead bodies under the mattress before we go to sleep tonight.”
“Like I’d forget that.”
He rolls over on his side and picks up the phone to call the rest of the band, find out where their rooms are, coordinate a time to meet up for the sound check. I’m trying not to move, just waiting on the AC to kick in, sweating my ass off in the process.
“Martinique Motel? What the hell?” Jack spits out.
I turn to see him with a confused look on his face, his eyebrows scrunched. I’m pretty confused myself.
His fingers go white as he grips the handset, practically snarling through his teeth, “You mean Days Inn, right?” He listens for an extra second, slams the phone onto the cradle, and announces, “Get your stuff. We’re outta here.”
“What? What’s going on?”
“We’re in the wrong hotel! The Days Inn is next door!”
“Ewwww!”
I can’t get out of the bed fast enough. I throw on my clothes and try to shake the cooties off my skin. God only knows what perversions took place on that mattress. “You know what this is? This is a flop house! It’s a fucking hooker house, Jack!”
I put my shoes on, but I know I’ll have to burn them eventually, and we go back down to the lobby to talk to Wife Beater. He’s still sitting there reading and sweating, his hairy chest sprouting over the neckline of his undershirt, looking like a character from a cheesy movie.
Jack walks right up to him and rests a fist on the counter. “Obviously, there’s been a misunderstanding here. We’d like a refund.”
Wife Beater doesn’t even bother to put down his magazine as he asks, “Did you use the room?”
Eww. Is he asking us if we’ve just had a quickie? What a scuzbag! As pissed as I am, it looks like Jack is getting ready to jump over the counter and liberate the guy’s head from his neck. Instead, he takes a calming breath and answers, “No, we didn’t use the room. We didn’t even want to touch anything in there. Besides, we checked in under false pretenses.”
“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to charge you twenty-five dollars for a short stay.”
Jack isn’t having it. “Look, pal. You either give me back every penny I gave you or you can use it to pay your plastic surgeon. Your choice.”
Wife Beater decides he’s messing with the wrong guy.
We throw our stuff back in the van and zip around the corner to the Days Inn. You’d think we just checked into the Waldorf with the way we oooh and ahhh over the clean, air-conditioned room. At this point, I guess it’s not going to take much to make us happy.
Jack has to tend to his sound check, so I opt to grab a shower and then take that nap for him. I stretch out onto the clean, cool sheets and take a huge, refreshing breath.
Heaven.
CHAPTER 26
Friday, June 30, 1995
8:30ish PM
The Circus Maximus at Caesar’s
Atlantic City
Jack looks so freaking hot right now.
That sweet little ass poured into a pair of black leather pants?
ME-OW.
I’ve got an up-close-and-personal view from my post at the side of the stage. Jimmy’s girlfriend Collette and I were thrown together earlier, and now we’re b
oth hiding behind a curtain, peeking over a speaker at our respective rock gods. Jack went with a Robert Plant look tonight; along with the leather pants, he’s wearing an unbuttoned, short-sleeved shirt to show off those gorgeous abs of his. And holy hell. It’s almost a shame when they’re blocked by his guitar.
There are thousands of fans out there in the audience, and even though they all came here tonight to see Stevie, they sure as hell seem to be digging his opening act. It’s a different vibe here at the arena than it is at the bars. Louder, for sure. But it’s way more real. Thunderjug isn’t just some bar band right now; they are a powerhouse. And they are owning this stage.
I’ve listened to their CD enough times to know that Jack sings lead on most of their originals, but actually watching him belt those same songs out in person is a different animal altogether.
And Jack is on the prowl.
The confidence. The strut. The sex. It’s just dripping from him, sweaty and scorching like a hot, wet, summer rain.
He puts down his axe and grabs the mic from the stand, stalking across the stage in a lethal slither, drawing every female eye to his mesmerizing form. Inviting every single one of them to put a new lipstick-stain on that huge dick of his, taunting and teasing from behind those leather pants as he arches his back, screaming the final lyrics of “Momentary Madness” into the mic.
He’s haunting. He’s ravenous. He’s overwhelming.
Thunderjug slides into a kickass version of “Vampire” as Jack moves to the front of the stage. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible to love my song any more than I already did, but hearing the perfected version is positively mind-blowing. The thrash of Freddie’s guitar, the pounding of Jimmy’s drums, the agony of Booey’s bass, the heartbreak of Jack’s voice.
I almost forget how to breathe.
It’s time to let the common people worship at the feet of Rock God, so Jack shakes his wet head over his screaming disciples, blessing them with holy water. They’re just eating it up, and he is loving every minute of it. He shoots me a quick wink before sprawling out on his back, his head and torso dipped over the edge of the stage.
