by Nico Rosso
It was late. After 1:00 a.m. She’d been awake for nearly twenty hours. Work started at eight. The same job she’d had for years, churning out the same crap, hating every second of it. But they didn’t own her. This town couldn’t chain her down. She had to be strong enough to walk. And she knew how to prove it.
Fuck it.
There was no clear route backstage from the audience. But there was a side exit most of the people were ignoring. It seemed like the closest way toward Trevor. As she made her way to the door, her path was blocked by a tall dude in a tight T-shirt and embellished jeans.
“Hey, big red. Hell of a show, right?” He slurred a little and smelled like too many eight dollar beers.
“Yeah, kick-ass, bro.” She tried to step around him, but he wasn’t giving up that easy. He casually blocked her path. Even if she wasn’t taking the chance of her life to try to catch Trevor Sand, the dude’s tactic would’ve sent her anger flaring.
He didn’t seem to notice. “I even caught one of his guitar picks. Lemme show you.” Clumsily, he started to paw into his jeans pocket.
Her shoes weren’t ideal for the move, but she had no choice. She faked one way, let him lean to block her, then she shifted to the other side and slid past him. Like a sweet crossover dribble. It worked. The dude tried too hard to correct himself on wobbly legs and crashed to the ground behind her. The flowing crowd laughed at the fool. She was already gone.
The side exit opened to a long sloping alley. Cool night air hit her, a relief after the oven of the club. The smells of stale booze and motor oil slammed into her. Only a couple of yellow security lights chased shadows in ghostly circles. It wasn’t the safest place to be. Most of the people left the club from other exits, pouring onto the major streets. She could get out of the alley fast, if she needed to. But the isolation was exactly what she was looking for.
The club was too small for a tour bus to park nearby. Trevor and his band would have to leave on foot. He’d seek out this quiet.
She moved up the alley, in and out of the pools of light. Her ears rang from the night of pounding music, but she could still tune herself to anything close enough to threaten her. Only the sound of her high heels tapped through the night.
Somewhere out there in the shadows was the answer. The moment she shared with Trevor—was it part of the act? Was his performance so good that she could be convinced the song was just for her? Or was it somehow real?
A mist descended. Darkness smudged close to her. It was time to turn back. She pressed on. Just to prove she could. But what would she say if she found him?
There were people ahead. Six or seven, moving away from her. The haze obscured them, joining their bodies together, removing limbs, stretching them out and shrouding them completely from sight.
She continued toward them. One shape separated from the others and stopped. Her heart pounded. Risk. One chance. It was hers to take. It was right. But she wouldn’t let herself feel the thrill completely until she was positive it was him.
Twenty yards, then ten. The mist was thick. His silhouette was unmistakable. Trevor Sand waited in the alley. Broad shoulders, a sure stance. His features emerged from the darkness. Black mussed hair. Full mouth. And those eyes, as if they could chase the darkness on their own.
She stopped walking. There was no stage to separate them. He stood on the same ground as her. His companions paused behind him. The currents of electricity that had started between them with “The Disappear” continued in the alley. The potential was so much hotter. He was close. He was possible.
But this time, instead of his presence glowing on the stage and being blasted from the loud speakers, it was her voice that could be heard. “Trevor Sand.”
He gazed back at her. The hunger was still there, as well as the dark questions in his look. “You shouldn’t be able to see me, Green Eyes.”
Her heart couldn’t pound any faster, harder. Heat flushed over her skin. Need to be touched. He seemed transfixed. She’d spent years knowing an aspect of him, learning this man through his music. It was time for him to know her. The moment was hers to take. She took a bold step toward Trevor.
“I’m Misty. You’ve been writing songs about me.”
Chapter Three
For hundreds of years, he had been writing songs about her. Those green eyes. Sharp like emeralds. Bright like the brief flash above the setting sun. But for the first time, he could gaze into that light before it disappeared.
No longer just poetry. The eyes were part of a woman, complete and human. The details he took in had never been clear when he’d been swept up by inspiration before. Tall and lean. Athletic and shapely. Jeans hugging her long legs, showing off the curves of her hips. Her shirt wasn’t too tight, yet still revealed rounded breasts, just a handful. It was easy to imagine her body twisted around him. There was enough strength in her to shake him. Like the distant thunder he’d felt earlier that day. It was so much closer now. She was the lightning.
This woman wasn’t used to chasing after rock stars, though. If she was, the neckline would be lower, more flesh exposed. And her auburn hair wouldn’t be tied up in that ponytail. Most girls who ventured backstage or beyond had loosened all the pins and ribbons. Like the women currently attached to Lee and Wolfgang. Misty, though, looked like she was ready to battle. What was she fighting for?
Misty. A name to the eyes.
Somehow she saw him and the others, despite the shrouding fog he conjured. Even the groupies didn’t recognize the magic. Misty was dangerous. A hollow ache bit into him. The hunger. But the show they’d just played should’ve been enough to feed him for weeks, maybe months.
She took another step toward him. The hunger seemed as if it could never be sated. But he had to feed. Misty was the only answer.
“Do you believe in legends?” he asked.
“Haven’t seen one yet.” How many lives had she lived? For a mortal in her twenties, this woman resonated with depth.
“Me either. But that doesn’t mean we stop looking, right?”
She smiled. Her mouth inspired lascivious thoughts of skin and tongues and quick breaths wrapped around pleasured moans. He’d watched those full lips shape the words he wrote as she sang “The Disappear” with him. They’d already kissed.
He needed more.
Misty’s smile took a wicked curl. “That’s why I’m here.”
“You don’t even know.”
“Neither do you. Not tonight.” She stood her ground. This woman could bleed him.
“What if the legends are true?” he demanded. She’d challenged herself to pursue him. How far would she go? How much did he need of her to feed?
Her small smile revealed bad intentions. “We could make some.”
“Or it’s already written.”
Her eyes narrowed, shrewd. “There’s always a choice.”
“Yes.” It was impossible to tell what she knew. What was her power? Purely human? More? For the first time in hundreds or thousands of years, he faced the unknown. “You chose to break away from whatever life chains you in order to be here tonight. You chose the door that led to me.”
“I had to find you.”
He moved toward her. Testing fate, death, and the legend of the Muse. “You had to.”
Religious leaders had tried to burn him in the town square. Husbands and fathers had ambushed him with sharpened shovels on quiet country lanes. Philosophers had summoned countless killers to erase him from the earth. Yet nothing felt more dangerous than reaching forward toward her hand.
Steps into a dark alley were one thing, but this touch would test her. He watched as she took a long breath. She searched his face, then her gaze moved along his chest and down his arm. His muscles shook. He needed more than just her look. She reached forward, fingers gentle as dawn.
He wr
apped his hand around hers. Her gaze flew back to his face. Skin pressed to skin. He felt every ridge of her flesh. The smooth web between her thumb and first finger. The calluses from writing. The small scar on her knuckle. If this was one hand, discovering the landscape of her body would take him thousands of years. Gladly.
If he didn’t die of hunger first.
More. The touch wasn’t enough. He urged her toward him. She pulled him to her. Festival fires burned through him, demanding sacrifices. His ashes would be scattered this night.
She leaned closer. Being alive for thousands of years would mean nothing if he couldn’t kiss this woman. Without a word, her lips could tell him if the Muse was real. It might be her. Even if the legend was just smoke, the woman he held was not one to let go easily.
Slowly, he turned his head to call back to Lee and the others. “She’s coming with us.”
He moved to join them, but Misty held her ground, and his hand. “What if I don’t want to?”
“Your choice.”
Her eyes were unreadable. “What if all I came for was a kiss?”
“Then we kiss and the night ends.”
Lee and Wolfgang waited with their women. One for Lee and two for Wolfgang. His band would have fun for a night. After seeing Misty at the show, Trevor didn’t have a taste for anyone else. But the idea of seeking her out in the crowd had left him cold. He couldn’t take another trick of his imagination. The connection during the song had felt real. Learning it wasn’t would’ve crushed him. But she was proving his fear unfounded. Thank the gods she had pursued him into the night and fog. Trevor could only hope that Misty would come further with him. The hunger that hollowed him couldn’t be satisfied in hours. Or days. He could die, searching for satisfaction. And she was just a mortal. How much could she give him?
She shook her head. “It’s not over.”
This time, she led, walking him up the alley toward the others and toward a fate she couldn’t begin to understand.
* * *
It’s not really happening. It’s not really happening. It can’t be real.
Trevor Sand. With his arm around her waist. The promise of a kiss—and more—so close. It can’t be real.
It was real.
She and Trevor and the others strutted out of the foggy night into the dim yellow light of an old Hollywood hotel. The empty couches and chairs held the impressions of ghosts. Potted plants twisted and curled like frozen dancers. Paint peeled from water damage.
The older woman behind the main desk straightened when she saw Trevor. She flashed a knowing grin.
Not breaking stride through the lobby, he put his hand out. “Innkeeper.”
She tossed a key, fluttering on its chain like a brass moth. Trevor caught it. His body moved with purpose. Misty had seen photos of him in tight shirts, muscles defined beneath the fabric. But feeling him against her side revealed more strength than she expected.
He led her to the elevator bank and hit the button. “Best room in the house.”
“They keep it empty year-round, just in case you show up?” So here she was, in a relic of a hotel, sassing rock star Trevor Sand. But the attention he paid to her through “The Disappear” continued through to now. He wasn’t just a rock star, but a man who didn’t expect to be treated like an idol.
“Yeah,” Trevor replied, matter-of-fact.
The elevator dinged and the doors struggled open. She and Trevor were in first, followed by Lee Rome, Wolfgang and their girls. The scents of warm skin, hair products, cologne and leather nearly overwhelmed her in the cramped space.
Trevor nudged Lee. “Top floor.”
“Think I’d forget?” He hit the button and the door closed.
Shuddering, the elevator climbed upward. Trevor brought Misty closer to him, tracing the tip of his finger along the edge of her neck. The shivers were hot electricity. His calluses against her skin created sparks. Before her eyes rolled shut, she saw the others in the elevator were already clutched together. Even with the doors closed she didn’t feel trapped. The smallest move could’ve separated her from Trevor. He would let her go. He wasn’t taking what she wouldn’t give freely. And she was in a very giving mood.
She whispered in his ear. “I didn’t know elevators went up for you. I expect these cables to snap and send us all to hell.”
He laughed, hot, on her skin. “Hell isn’t what you think.” His hand slid along her waist. Nimble fingers slipped past the hem of her top and moved on to the skin of her hip.
She held back a moan. These were the fingers that commanded music from his guitar. She’d memorized every note. He was fire on her flesh. The heat was welcome; it chased a long winter away. If it had been the dude who tried to hit on her at the end of the show, she would’ve driven her spike heel through the top of his foot. But this was Trevor Sand. Rock star. And even if he was just an ordinary man, she’d still go along on this wild ride with him. He captured her with his intensity. It seemed he would kick down any door that blocked their path. His focus on her was intoxicating. Her body wouldn’t blaze so bright if there was no connection between them. It was her night to take what she wanted from him.
Leaning hard into him, she felt the outline of his cock against her ass. He tightened his grip on her. His lips found the back of her neck. He hadn’t even touched them and her breasts were already super sensitive. All the heat he’d inspired coiled between her legs. A sweet need centered in her pussy.
She let the moan out. It didn’t matter anymore. No one judged her here. Wolfgang had his hand up one girl’s skirt while she made out with the other girl. Lee pressed his woman against the wall of the elevator as they searched each other’s mouths with their tongues.
The elevator lurched to a stop. The haze of sex lifted briefly from everyone as they stumbled into the hallway. Trevor led, key out like a lance to slay a dragon. After quick snaps of brass, the door to the suite opened.
Trevor stepped aside so she could enter first. He kept his hand on the small of her back, not pushing, but maintaining the touch that started in the alley. If he pushed, she would resist. The spell would be broken. Instead they found a steady balance. Walking a tightrope over the abyss together. He flipped on the lights to the suite. “Should’ve seen it in the fifties. Fit for Hollywood royalty.”
Since then, the suite had dimmed at the edges. Once gilded furniture was dull in the sunken living room. Velvet and gloss worn away in patches. Darkness streaked the corners of the walls. Though faded, the room was lush with gold, burgundy and black-lacquered wood. Asian prints on tattered silk echoed an old desire for the exotic.
Outside the large windows, Los Angeles glittered. Streetlights and buildings and mute freeways. Calm constellations that didn’t betray the chaos that was the city.
The door closed behind her. “So you’ve seen pictures of its former glory?” she asked.
Lee passed her on his way to the built in bar. “Pictures, right.” He set up glasses and bottles like soldiers charging artillery. “Ice?”
Wolfgang led his two women down into the living room. “Fuck ice. Bring us liquor.” All three crashed onto the biggest couch in a twist of limbs. Misty couldn’t tell where one person began and another ended.
Lee tossed a bottle into the mass. Wolfgang’s hand released someone’s flesh and caught it.
“Spirit?” Trevor still stood close, sharing the heat of his body with her.
“Bourbon.” Watching him drink it on the stage gave her a powerful thirst for the burning liquor.
“American blood.” He stepped away for a moment, then returned with a bottle. “Take her. Open her.”
The glass was cool where he hadn’t touched it, hot where his hand had been. She twisted the top, cracking the seal and releasing the first specter of sugared burnt oak.
Trevor gazed at her. That s
ame look from the video this morning. Was it only this morning? It was a lifetime ago. The old Misty. She not only saw the hungry searching from him now, she felt it.
“The first drink’s yours.” He put his hand over hers on the bottle. “Virgin sacrifice.”
Together, they tipped the bottle to her lips. The liquid was fire. The first gulp tightened her senses. The world contracted to this one room, high over Hollywood.
With their hands still laced on the bottle, they moved it to Trevor’s mouth. He smiled, potent and dangerous. He could take a bite out of the glass, then consume her too. Instead he took a long draw off the whiskey.
It almost made her come watching him lick the bourbon off his lips.
He moved closer to her. “Even better, knowing your mouth was on it.”
They dropped the bottle. It thudded onto the carpet, liquid sloshing out. Another self would’ve worried about the damage, the mess. This Misty wouldn’t even let herself look at it. Tonight she lived by rock-and-roll rules.
Wrapping her hand around the back of his neck, she drew Trevor into a kiss. The fire of the alcohol wasn’t as strong as her need to crash into him. Smash their bones to bits and mix all the pieces together. She opened her lips, taking him in. His tongue probed. She licked at it.
He pressed hard against her lips. Opening wider, they tested and teased with their tongues. Slick and warm. She drew him farther into her mouth. He tasted of salt and whiskey. They breathed together, like they were singing the song again.
Music burst through the room. It seemed like magic, as if Trevor was a demon made of rock and roll itself. Then she glanced to see Lee had set up an iPod in a dock. The hard driving metal of Kent Gaol blasted. The air quivered and her heart raced. The night sped faster and the brakes burned away.
