by S. J. Blaze
He catches me rolling my eyes. “No, ya don’t, baby girl.” And then he tickles me. Hands all up in my tummy and laughing in my face tickle. Yes, it’s a sad reality and one I scarcely admit, but I am indeed horribly ticklish.
Naturally, all eyes lock on the obscene behavior which is causing that horrifyingly piercing sound coming from my rather busted lips. I take no responsibility for this. It’s all Tank. I’m screaming, and in my attempt to flee, I fall to the ground. He jumps down following me and continues his torture.
“Stop, stop. I give. Uncle or auntie or whomever will make this stop!”
Does he stop…no.
“Say it and I’ll quit.”
I shake my head back and forth as tears trail down my face. I can’t even imagine how screwed up this looks. Tank with gargantuan colorfully tatted muscles protruding from every crevice hovering over my tiny writhing form. And does anyone from the couch abyss jump in and save me…or even the monster I pay to take care of me? Nope.
“Okay, okay…Tank is the absolute best at everything.” I breathe in, quickly trying to fill my lungs, now that he has backed off.
“And…” His hands hover above me, wiggling, and taunting me.
“I’ll never be as awesome as the master, Tank Remmington.”
He smiles big and stands up. Reaching down he asks, “Was that so hard, baby girl?”
He over-pulls and I go flying up into him. Pulling back, my hand lands on my stomach and my voice weak. “Yes sir, it was, sir!” I mock salute him and practically run to the couch, jumping on Bullet. The fuzzy blonde next to him whines and murmurs something I couldn’t care less about.
Tank strolls out with a backwards, “See ya.” But I could have sworn I heard him mumble, Pain in my ass. Sounds about right.
“Hi Bully.” I rub his bald tatted head. He’s shirtless, like always, and I can’t help but eye all of the colorful tattoos that cover his chest, arms, and neck. Just above his heart, he has a tattoo of a bullet sinking into the skin, and scratched into the base is the word “Shooter.” I lean over and kiss his chest, and then rest my head there. I can feel him running his fingers through my hair.
“Hi, baby girl. You have fun over there?” He has the absolute deepest voice ever. It isn’t smooth, though. It’s all gravelly and broken and rough.
I look up and smile my painfully swollen smile. “Sure, if that’s what you’d call it.”
He eyes my lip and looks away quickly. He knows better than to say anything.
Gunner chimes in from the other couch he’s sharing with Trigger. “How many stitches?”
“Three,” I say, keeping my head on Bullet’s chest.
“How’s your hands?” I can hear the anger in his voice rising.
“Fine.”
“Trig, can you do back up, tonight?”
“I can still do it. Fuck, Gun, I told you I had scheduled a fight when you booked us this. You can’t get all fucking pissy,” I pipe in, finally meeting his menacing stare. “I’m fine. What the hell. I’m not complaining. I didn’t fucking ask for help!”
“Maybe you didn’t, but your face sure as shit did!” He stands up and walks to the table of drinks and sparse amounts of food.
Steve-O, the club manager, walks in and lets us know it’s time to go on. Great... a pissed off Gun at the ready.
We climb onto the stage and take our spots.
The curtains go up and the spotlight lands on me, or rather my hands.
My fingers glide up and down the neck of my Gretsch locking in the rhythm. Setting the mood and opening the song. Opening tonight’s set.
I solo for maybe twenty seconds before the drums and bass kick in. Now we are picking up steam and the crowd is screaming with need. They want more. They demand satisfaction.
Gunner steps up to the mic. “BeddddHeadddd!” he screams and draws the word out like a referee. “Thank you for spending the night with us. Oh and some of you will. My name, in case you forgot, is Gunner.” He pauses, the dork eating up the screams for marriage and baby making later. “Over on drums we have Bullet.” More screaming. “On bass is Trigger.” Pause. More screams. “On rhythm guitar, our lady of the night…” Wait, what the hell does that mean? Is he calling me a hooker? “Shooooooter.” I give them a little smile and laugh at Gunner as he sticks his tongue out at me like he’s Gene Simmons. “And we are…” He waits for everyone to scream our name. “LOADED GUN!”
Then Gun goes into sexy rocker mode and starts singing his crazy beautiful heart out. Nothing stops this guy from his music. He’s such a rock star. He was born to do this. He’s got that lean swimmer’s body, with dark wavy hair that lands around his shoulders. Leather bracelets climb his arms, and he’s wearing dirty, torn to shreds jeans, and a tight black t-shirt. He’s even sporting rings. He has a couple of hoops in each ear and two in his right brow, plus a lip ring. He’s all blinged out. The only bling on me, right now, is my Gretch Cadillac tailpiece on my guitar. Oh, and I put my navel ring back in, but that’s mostly covered by my top. And, of course, Sussurro.
Forty-five minutes later and I’m a sweaty mess. My hair sticks to my face and my black eyeliner has probably melted under my eyes. My body is quickly catching up to me. My hips have been undulating away lost in the music and forgetting to acknowledge my bruised ribs. My voice is getting hoarse from the stress of the week and the backup vocals I’m producing. I look over and see the boys are about as spent as I am.
But no matter what, I love these nights. I love when we play for a crowd and they feed off our music, and in turn we feed off of their excitement and energy. My favorite part is when I connect with these three amazing men on stage. It’s the only time we’re completely harmonious. They’re my best friends.
Lost in my head, I barely hear it when Gunner yells, “Goodnight, BOSTON! We fucking love you!” The curtains come down and we climb off stage, the roar of the crowd still echoing through my ears.
I unplug and hand Malice my Black Penguin beauty then follow the sounds of glorious, sweet relief. Shots!
“Who wants in?” Gunner lines up eight shots of Patron. I grab my two and slam them back. One followed by the next. No lime needed. The skanks from earlier forgotten on the couch, I smile at my boys and say, “I love you, losers!”
An arm encircles my waist and Bull leans over. “Oh, we fucking know!” I elbow the jackass.
Gunner sniggers then plants a kiss on my forehead. “Another round?”
“Patron me, baby!”
“Uh, oh. Our girl is getting lit tonight. Malice, you on this?”
I roll my eyes, grab the shots, and down them.
“I’m out.” I wave to the boys and hastily make my way down the stairs with Malice hot on my tail.
“Allez-vous attendre pour moi ou continue agir comme un enfant?”
You going to wait for me or continue acting like a child?
Decisions, decisions. I slow down and wait for him to catch up. He stops before getting in front of me, in his preferred spot, and gives me the evil eye. Then he continues. As the lights pulses all around us and the bodies squeezed into the club rock us, bump us, and practically knock us over, I can feel the alcohol warming through my blood. I start to giggle. And sway. But I’m so happy.
I grab Malice’s jacket and give it a few tugs. He stops and turns to me, confused.
“Je t’aime, Malice.”
I love you, Malice.
He looks me over and shakes his head. Then he throws me over his shoulder. Yes, this position is definitely helping my predicament. That’s funny.
“Je veux vos fesses.”
I like your butt. I giggle while patting said body part. I’m full of funny tonight.
A second later, or maybe more, I’m upside down. Maybe time moves faster when you’re upside down. I should look into that. I’m dropped onto an oversized plush chair in the VIP area, which is separate from the rest of the club.
Another second later a bottle of water is thrust into my hands.
Drink.
For a man who speaks six languages fluently, you’d think he’d use more words. I laugh again. At no one. To no one. Basically, with no one. But shit, I’m funny tonight. This is golden! Oscar worthy. Maybe not, but I’m cracking myself up.
Malice is gone again. Into the shadows. He likes to watch me from a distance. Because if I pass out on my face and break something, he’ll have a nice distant shot of that.
I’m not alone for long because the goofball trio and their band of slutty mutts stroll in.
“Hey three amigos. Did you miss me?” I give my cheesy smile, the throbbing in my lip gone. Ohhhh, I love alcohol. May I have some more?
Since I know Malice is out there watching and monitoring my alcoholic intake, I go into incognito spy mode. “Psst. Bully, get me a shot.”
He’s got a beer in one hand and what looks like some DD fakeys in the other.
“Baby girl, I’m sort of busy. Why don’t you get it?”
The VIP bar is only like fifteen feet away but Malice might as well be a grumpy grandpa with laser vision. He misses nothing and I know he won’t let me get another shot. I have to play the sneak.
Next victim.
“Psst. Trig...”
“Nope!” Dammit. He’s chatting with some butch looking dude, or it could be a chick. My eyesight isn’t exactly 20/20.
I look at Gun…one more try.
He sees me and shakes his head, giving me a hard glare and then goes back to the brunette who’s straddling him and licking his face. Her skirt is hiked up so high I can see her…well hello there.
Three strikes and you’re out.
Time for another tactic. I start bopping to the music, letting it take more and more of me. I get up still keeping the same bopping thing flowing. I take a big chug of water. Water is so good. So refreshing. Totally not thinking about Patron right now. See Malice, I’m happy with bopping and water.
I move towards the railing, still bopping. I’ve added a sway. Now maybe some arms. Better put the bottle down, don’t want to hurt anyone. Those wicked plastic bottles can be so dangerous.
I’m bopping and swaying and my arms are joining in. Now to move, step back, step back, and sway and sway and sway. Getting closer to the Patron promise land. Step back, step…
Warmth. I suddenly feel warmth against the length of my entire back. Strong warm bands wrap around my middle and the most beautiful voice says softly into my ear, “Hi, love.” Sigh. What Patron?
I smile and do some weird owl neck thing to get a better look. “Hhhhiii.”
Then I sense the pounding in the floor as Malice marches over.
“Qui est-ce? Pourquoi est-il vous touche ?”
Who is this? Why is he touching you?
As I’m about to answer, Coen pulls me rather quickly, hey ninja, behind him. Protector Coen equals all kinds of Sexy Coen. Me likey!
“Mon nom est Coen Collins et je suis Charlie. Et tu es?”
My name is Coen Collins and I am Charlie’s. And you are?
Malice isn’t used to people calling me by my first name, so he assumes I trust this guy, rather incorrectly, but I’ll deal with that later.
“Je suis sa garde, Malice. Vous prenez soin d'elle ce soir?”
I am her guard, Malice. You’re taking care of her tonight?
“Bien sûr, elle est à moi.”
Of course, shes mine.
Malice looks over Coen’s shoulder and gives me a questioning look. I respond with what I think to be the universal, ‘I don’t have a fucking clue’ look, but apparently it came across as the ‘yes, I’m gonna hump this guy’ look, because he leaves. Leaves, leaves, or goes back to the shadow leaves...I don’t know.
Coen turns around and rubs my arms. I say the first thing that pops in my drunken genius head, “Youuu speak Frenchhh.”
Coen smiles. “Yeah, love. You got that all on your own, did you?” He cups my face and looks at my eyes. Only this time they’re not probing. “How much did you drink tonight?”
I hold up four fingers, triumphantly.
“When was the last time you ate?”
Now he’s hitting me with the hard questions. “Ummm. I think. Arowwnnnd. It was after…but wwway before…Oh, I know. I had a granola bar around two-firdy.” Ha. I remember. Not drunk at all. Brain intact and working brilliantly. And the award for awesome rememberer is…
Chapter Five
I breathe in and stretch the sleep out of my muscles. Yum. These sheets feel deliciously soft and silky, which is weird since my sheets don’t feel like this. But apparently my brain and my eyes haven’t fully woken, as they’re still in sleep coma heaven. However, it would appear my bladder has. And so has the exceptional throbbing coming from a variety of places. My tongue glides across my outer top teeth. They feel gross and I wince with the movement. Ouch, memories are resurfacing from the fight. That would explain most of the throbbing.
Grudgingly, I get up and walk over to a cluster of doors. With one eye still partially closed, I push the one with the light seeping through and find a bathroom. Well, maybe that’s an understatement as it’s more like an in home spa. With no time to enjoy the whimsy this place brings, I hunt for the toilet…my one and only focus.
Locating a side door, I find blissful release.
Washing my hands, still in a daze, I find myself staring at my reflection. I know I should be freaking out right now. I’m not in my house and I’m not in one of my guy’s houses. But I know Malice wouldn’t have let me out of his sight without good reason, so I imagine I’m not in any harm’s way. Plus, I trust my instincts. And right now, I don’t feel any fear, but rather a strange calm.
What is a little frustrating is that I’m only in my bra and panties. I’ll dig into that one later. Leaning forward to examine the day after bruising, I notice a bunch of men’s aftershaves and other toiletries on the opposite sink. I walk over, grab the mouthwash and take a gurgle then grab the aftershave to take a sniff…yummy! I had an inkling, but now I know for sure. I’m at Coen’s. I know that smell.
I wish I could remember more. The last I recall I was still at the club. Was Coen there? Honestly, I’m not that much of a drinker. But between my face hurting something fierce, the Andrew bomb, and Coen’s peculiar presence throwing me off kilter, I deserved some! Hell, I deserved some Dom not tequila.
I gently push open the door and spy Coen still asleep on the bed in only a pair of red tight briefs. He’s on his back with his right arm cocked over his face and his left on his abs. I know I should be thinking about the tightness in his stomach, which although no true six pack, is still quite a sight to behold. And the pale hair cascading downwards towards the unknown. I should think about the way his arms bulk slightly even in this relaxed mode. Or his thick thighs.
But I don’t. What I do notice is his smooth skin with not one scratch, mole or freckle. Not one birthmark. And most definitely not a drop of ink, anywhere.
I have to physically look away, as it hurts so much to see him. I suddenly feel dirty and beneath him. I want to cry.
“Hey.” His morning voice calls for me. He has moved both arms behind his neck watching me.
“You feeling better, love?”
Even though I have no clue what he’s talking about, I want to leave.
“Absolutely! If you just point me to my stuff, I’ll get out of your hair.” The pounding behind my eyes grows. Now I’m really starting to feel sick. And for some ridiculous unknown reason, I cross my hands in front of myself in some vain attempt to hide. Doing some weird pretzel thing I only prove my awkwardness. He reaches over to the nightstand and walks over to me.
“Here. Take this, it’ll help with that headache.”
Wanting to move this along, I grab the three painkillers and swallow them with some water from the bottle he handed me. “Keep drinking, love.”
Okay. I drink another few mouthfuls and put on a fake smile. “Sooooo. I’m here and I have no clothes on. Feel like shari
ng?”
With that, he smiles darkly, eyes all glittery-mini-disco-ball-esque, and he slowly gazes down my body. Eyes returning to mine, he smirks. “Things seem about right to me.”
I look down eager to get away from all that sparkle when I notice his feet. Geez, even those are freaking pretty. Are guys supposed to be this pretty? They have no bunions and the nails are all trim. His toes are lined up perfectly in ranking order. I want to stomp on them and see if they’ll go on attack. I crack a smile at that.
Then I feel his hand move to my waist. Warmth. The pad of his thumb brushing up and down from my ribs down and then up, the rest of his fingers spanning the full cross length of my back.
“I noticed your tattoo at the fight. What is it?”
He runs his thumb over the beautifully inked creation. On my left outer rib all the way down until about two inches below the left side of my bellybutton, sleeps a remarkable delineation of a phoenix. “It’s a phoenix,” I whisper, not meeting his eyes.
“Why is it all black? I can see the fire, the intricate feathers, but it’s all in black? The shading is remarkable, but no color, love?”
I shake my head still staring at his feet. My answer too personal to share.
Suddenly his beautiful face pinches in alarm and he grips me almost painfully. His eyes narrow and look confused. Then he drops to his knees...a bang on your knees drop.
He’s closely examining the phoenix, or rather what it hides. The jagged raised puckered line of skin, that’s six inches long. If I didn’t feel so fucking raw before, I certainly do now. And those damn painkillers haven’t kicked in yet.
Instinctively, my stomach muscles tense, my fight or flight predisposition on the verge of kicking in. His grip is tight as his breath cascades across my belly causing all kinds of uncomfortable goosebumps. He presses his forehead firmly to the silent atrocity. “What happened?” he grinds out brokenly, head unmoved.
I shake my head, as I’m not about to tell him. Even if he doesn’t see it, I know he can feel it, and he can probably hear it through my silence. Coen is too clever not to notice. Besides, it’s hardly first date conversation, not that we’ve even been on a freaking date.
