Waking Up in Vegas

by Stephanie Kisner

  She turned her head, focusing an assessing gaze on him. Broad shoulders and muscular, tanned legs. Backwards baseball hat over longish golden hair, sunglasses, t-shirt with a Nike logo, shorts. English accent. Tourist. “Sure,” she replied, handing him the lighter. He remembered to return it when he was done. She was back to watching the street.

  JT stayed squatting low. He didn’t want to stand and tower over her, but it seemed too intrusive to just pull up a piece of sandy sidewalk and sit next to her, uninvited. “Beautiful area,” he said. “You live near here?” Well, stupid as it sounded, it was at least something to say, and it really was a pretty view of the nearby mountains.

  “Yeah, unfortunately.” She sighed loudly. She had turned to look at him when he began to speak. He looked strangely familiar, but she couldn’t place him.

  “Why ‘unfortunately?’ That bad around here, is it?” he asked.

  “Not bad, really. Just boring. Pretty sunsets and summertime rainbows are only thrilling for so long, you know? After that, it’s just endless sand, a beach without the water. I’m not originally from here, and the pace of life here is just too laid-back for me. Being underpaid doesn’t help, either.” Her face twisted into a scowl. “Damn. I shouldn’t have said that. You’re not going to tell the store manager I’m complaining, are you?” She looked worried.

  He gave her a warm smile. “Nope, not me. I can keep a secret.” She lit another cigarette, and he fished one out of his pack, as well. “May I?” he asked, his hand outstretched for the lighter again.

  “Help yourself,” she said, handing it to him. Without thinking, he put the red lighter into his pocket when he was done. She didn’t notice. “I’m also antsy. I’m taking a few days off, starting tomorrow. My lab always goes to hell when I’m gone. I’m not looking forward to coming back to the mess. But I need the time away, and I’m looking forward to a concert tomorrow. I managed to get a photo pass, and I hope to get a few shots worth selling. Or at least worth keeping for my portfolio.”

  “Really? You’re a photographer, as well? Whose concert?” I think we may have a bingo over here.

  Her face suddenly seemed to glow. “My favorite band since… well, I guess they’ve always been my favorite. Slanker Knox’s going to be here. I can’t wait--I wish the show was tonight instead. I managed to get front row,” she said proudly. “Last time they were here was two years ago, and I was four rows back, behind a bunch of drunks who started a beer fight during the encore. Completely blew my final shots, dammit. The band all cleared out to the other side of the stage. Talk about being pissed....”

  “So, did you get any good shots?” He’d wondered why none of their photos were on display. I remember that show. And I remember scarpering to stage right to keep away from the flying beer.

  “No. Most of them were blurry. I was on stage left, trying to shoot Paul and JT, mostly, but they move around too damn much.” She smiled. “Listen to me-- ‘Paul and JT,’ like I know them personally. But I guess when you grow up listening to a band, you start to think in terms of first names.” She glanced at her watch, then stubbed out her cigarette. “Damn. Time to get back inside. Hey, thanks for listening to me vent. And I don’t even know your name. I’m Korina.” She held out her hand.

  He took it in both of his. “And I’m Joseph Bla- um, Brock. It’s been my pleasure.” Shit, almost said Blackwood and gave myself away.

  “Well, now I have two British J-guys to remember. It’s been nice meeting you, Joseph Blammbrock. I hope you aren’t put off by what I said. About Albuquerque, I mean. It’s really a nice place, if you’re a tourist.” She took back her hand and stood up. He watched her go back inside.

  Yep, it’s definitely her, he thought. She’s good, she’s smart, and she’s off for the next few days. Damn that Russell and his flu, but I think we’ve found our sub.

  ****

  Hundreds of times. That’s what he kept telling himself. He’d performed on-stage hundreds of times before crowds of fifteen or twenty thousand people. Hell, on this tour alone, we’ve done over fifty gigs, and sold out every show. So what’s crawled up my ass today? It’s just another coliseum, another huge, happy crowd. But, then again, it really isn’t.

  Because tonight, after the show, I get to play head games. I’m sure she’ll agree to be the fill-in photographer that we need. That’s pretty much a given. He shrugged. So I’m not modest, but a fact’s a fact. We’re still a hot commodity. And Rolling Stone wants a photo for an upcoming cover. He paused to think of his near-lifelong friends and bandmates: Rafe Westmore, the bassist with the headful of dirty blond ringlets, Paul Ross, wiry lead guitarist extraordinaire, rhythm guitarist Ian Rower, tall and lean with shoulder-length light brown waves, and Clay Beck, their tireless drummer and backbone of the band. Still photogenic, all of us, yeah? Not bad for a bunch of guys hovering around forty.

  He paced to the window and back, hand tapping out a staccato beat on his thigh. If things work out the way I hope, if she gets on well with the band, we bring up the other possibilities…

  JT trusted his instincts. They’d rarely steered him wrong about people. Ever. He was certain that tonight he’d know if she was the right one. If she was, he’d charm and finesse her into taking the job, if he had to. She might not know exactly what job she was really accepting, but he would. First, he needed to make sure the chemistry was right. He expected it would be.

  Hoping to relax, and to get into the right frame of mind to interview this woman without seeming to be, he fished through his suitcase to find his latest favorite reading material. Pulling out a slightly battered sheaf of paper held together with a fat binder clip, he started to flip through the pages…

  …The sound of his friend being pleasured by his lover affected Paul far more than he expected. They’d shared women before, but never one who mattered to one of them. This was a rare treasure they shared, he thought, unsure of which of the two lovers excited him more. He kissed his way up her throat to claim her lips. She returned the kiss with a passion far greater than they ever shared alone, her breath falling harder against his cheek. He shifted his stroking to the sensitive bit of flesh hidden in her velvety folds, touching and teasing lightly. The sensations flooding Cherie were astounding and she came undone with a moaning scream. Paul trapped the sound with his questing mouth. In her ecstasy, she squeezed JT’s shaft tightly in her hand. He stiffened and uttered a guttural sound deep in his throat, longing to feel her heat surrounding him.

  Cherie relaxed her hand and JT shifted away, pulling back from her taut peak, slowly tracing his tongue across the tip. He turned, bringing his hips closer to Cherie’s face, wanting to feel her lips against his most sensitive skin. It was obvious what JT wanted, and Paul ended the kiss, only to begin it again lower, against her other, honeyed lips. JT straddled Cherie’s face, eyes raking appreciatively down her body to watch Paul pleasuring her with his tongue. His aching shaft throbbed; they were so enticing to watch.

  Paul glanced up at his friend and, deciding he should have the whole intoxicating experience that was Cherie’s mouth, fumbled on the bedclothes with a blind hand. When he found what he was searching for, he slipped it to Cherie. Her fingers closed around the shoelace, a sly smile blooming on her face.

  Cherie reached up to the apex of his thighs and wound the cord over his throbbing member, then looped it snugly again, making sure to include the tight sack hanging below. JT suddenly felt immense, ready to burst. Sliding her lithe fingers down to the dangling ends, she pulled him closer with the shoelace reigns. He slowly entered the waiting heat behind her lips, shuddering as her tongue slid along his full length. The feel of her throat around his tip threatened his control; what Cherie did with the dangling strings completely destroyed it.

  She pulled them snug, then tied the loose ends behind her neck. He was bound to her, tied inside of her. She raked her tongue over his shaft, swirling up and then down again, pausing to circle the tip, then starting over. JT was lost. “Holy shit!! Where did you
.... Aaahhhhhmygod...” He began to grind his hips to her face, thrusting into her mouth. She responded by grazing her teeth on the sensitive skin underneath.

  Paul could no longer wait for his own pleasure. Watching JT straddle Cherie’s face, tied to him, had him hard as concrete; he thought he might explode from a single touch. He scrambled backward to kneel between her thighs. Pulling her legs over his shoulders, he plunged deeply into her depths. “Oh, sweet, tight Cherie,” he murmured.

  She clenched around him as she continued to thrill JT with her teeth and tongue. Paul realized he couldn't last much longer, too surrounded by the scents and sounds of passion. Never had he been so lost in the sensations of lovemaking as he was with these two lovers; they were magical together, liquid heat to watch…

  I really should not be reading this before the show. I get keyed up enough just from being onstage as it is, and I don’t have anyone to take it out on. Dammit.

  He flipped further back in the bundle of paper, skimming the chapters to find the bittersweet final scenes that so affected the romantic in him…

  Ch. 15.

  Clay, Rafe and Ian were waiting in the bar. JT was the first to join them.

  “Man! You look like hell,” Rafe declared as he downed the rest of the wine in his glass. “Did you just get up?”

  “Yeah, sorta,” JT lied. “I’m still tired.” From this afternoon.

  “Well, I hope you're not coming down with something. We’re booked pretty solid for the next two weeks,” said Clay, who sat nursing a cola.

  “So do I.” This part, at least, was true, JT thought. I seem to be coming down with a bad case of lust.

  Rafe motioned to the bartender for a refill. JT ordered a Heineken with a frozen glass. He drank half of it in one long pull, then lit a cigarette and sat staring into his mug. The others knew not to bother him when he was ‘in a mood,’ as they liked to call it, so he was left alone with his thoughts. Their conversation washed over him, unnoticed.

  Until...

  “Holy shit! Look at her trying to walk!” Clay snickered.

  “Christ! What did Paul do to her?” Rafe stifled a laugh.

  “I knew we shouldn’t have left them alone all day,” said Ian, trying to hide a grin behind his hand.

  JT looked to the entrance of the bar and saw Paul and Cherie. She was walking like her hips were a rusty tractor desperately in need of oiling. A tiny smile curved the corners of his mouth…

  He flipped further into the packet, knowing what he wanted was near the end.

  Ch. 16.

  JT sat awake in his room for some time after he left Cherie’s room. He tried to sleep, but when he closed his eyes, images of her danced behind his lids. Her smile, her full lips, her expressive eyes, then how her eyes looked when she was lost in pleasure in his arms. It was torture, and he could take it no longer. He sat up and turned the lights back on. What was it about this woman he had known for more than a year that so entranced him tonight? He had, on occasion, dreamed about her; after all, he’d been wanting someone he couldn’t have. But never had he been so preoccupied about her like this. It had to stop.

  As much as he enjoyed their day of pleasing each other, he knew it could never be repeated. He thought of his longtime girlfriend, Julie, and the promise he made to her. He wouldn’t play with the groupies while they were on the road. They all had their ways of maintaining that promise. He and Paul had conspired to involve Cherie in JT keeping his. It backfired.

  He thought of Julie, of the woman who trusted him, the woman who paired up his socks when she did the laundry (she still insisted on having no housekeeper unless the band were staying at the house, recording), she who rinsed his stray beard shavings out of the sink (and with only minimal grumbling) when she wanted to wash her face. She was his other half, his significant other, and this was unfair. Involving Cherie was involving his heart. This was not simple sex, and he, at least, knew it. For him, it was the answer to his longings, his midnight dreams. And he had to end it. Now.

  He pulled on shorts and his slippers. No lace-up shoes, he thought. Don’t even go there, it wouldn’t do to arrive aroused. He shouldered his resolve and went swiftly out the door before he changed his mind. He didn’t waver on the walk down the hall, but as he stood in front of her door, he began to doubt. What if I’m reading too much into this? What if, for her, it’s just the sex, or simply to please Paul? So what? I’m not doing this for her, he reminded himself. I’m here for myself, for my relationship with Julie. I can’t, no, I won’t, throw it all in the dumper for a fantastic fuck.

  Taking a deep breath, he knocked on the door. He saw the peephole in the door darken; she was looking to see who it was. Muffled noises sounded from the other side of the door.

  “Just a minute, JT,” she said as he heard the sound of the chain lock sliding out then a clatter as it swung against the door frame. He wondered idly if Paul was back; why would she have chained the door if he still hadn’t come upstairs? I’d rather talk to Cherie alone. Then I’ll talk to Paul later. But if I have to talk to them both together....His deep sigh was obscured by the sound of the door opening.

  Cherie stood in the doorway wearing a t-shirt and panties. Nothing else. No, it wasn’t just a t-shirt, it was the shirt he had worn earlier and left behind. She looks utterly edible in that. “You going to come in, or just stand there and stare at me?”

  JT realized he had been gaping at her, and smiled in his embarrassment. “I’ll, uh, I’ll come in. Sorry.” She stepped out of the way as he brushed by. She closed the door then settled herself into the corner of the couch, picking up her wineglass as she sat. The bottle of wine was on the table, almost empty. JT saw that the glass he used earlier was still there. He poured the last of the wine into it, then sat down next to her.

  “So, what’s with the shirt? Do you normally sleep in other people’s clothes?” JT smiled.

  “No, not usually. It’s just that, well, it smelled like you. And since Paul’s not back yet, and you were on my mind....” She was looking down at her wineglass as she spoke, turning the stem in her fingers. The wine sloshed unsteadily up the sides of the goblet. Was she drunk?

  “You were on my mind, too, ma Cherie. That’s why I’m here.” She looked up from the wine, but still didn’t meet his eyes. “You have been on my mind for the better part of the last year, and now, today, I just can’t seem to stop thinking about you. At all.” Her focus was still fixed on some point below his eyes. “And I need to make it stop.”

  She raised her eyes to meet his. He saw the hunger burning there, and the sadness. So she felt it, too. Damn, this was harder than he had expected. It would have been easier if she didn’t care. “Cherie, I can’t do this to Julie. What we did today was outside of my promise. I can’t let that happen again. I can’t do that to her again.”

  Cherie nodded her head slowly. She shifted her gaze to a spot on the wall over his head. “Do you want to know something?” she asked softly. “I’ve been a big fan since the band began, but when I saw your picture on the first album, I thought you were the ugliest man I had ever seen.” He grinned at that. He’d always hated that picture. “No, really. You looked completely stoned, and with those poodle-perm curls... but as you changed, so did my opinion. You probably don’t remember, but I met you once, almost 20 years ago. You seemed so aloof and cocky that I decided I was right, that you were ugly, but on the inside. When I met Paul and we started dating, I told him that I didn’t like you, and if at all possible, I didn’t want to spend any time with you. And I told him why. He said you weren’t like that at all, and promptly dragged me over to talk to you. Constantly. He was determined to change my opinion about you.”

  She met his eyes again. “And it worked. Too well, I’m afraid. Lately, spending so much time with all of you guys, I found myself thinking about you. Dreaming about you. Of being with you. And I was thinking that same thing, that I can’t do this to Paul. I love him, JT, I really do. We can’t do this to him, either. Who knows, if
things don’t work out between him and I, between you and Julie, there might be a time for us to be an ‘us.’ But not now.”

  “How are we going to tell Paul? That playtime is over, I mean.”

  “I’ll tell him. I’ll say that I wasn’t cut out for threesomes, after all. They make me too sore. And I can’t stand the ribbing I get from the band when I walk funny.” She chuckled.

  JT downed his wine in two gulps. “Well, I guess I should be going, then, before he gets back. I’m glad we feel the same way. I wasn’t sure what to expect...” He reached over Cherie to set down his glass on the small table near the end of the sofa. “But, one thing before I go?” His arm was still over her shoulder, his face loomed over hers, his hand gripping the arm of the couch so tightly his knuckles shone white.

  “Sure, anything, JT.” Her voice was a throaty whisper, silk on sandpaper.

  He looked down into her eyes. “Just one more kiss? Please? Nothing more, I promise.”

  In answer, she put a soft hand to his face, her thumb tracing his cheekbone. Her eyes opened wider, the golden glow in them threatening to become fire.

  JT leaned his face into her hand, not wanting to break the contact with her skin. Captivated by her eyes, he slowly brought his face closer, not touching yet, just breath on skin. Feather soft, he slanted his mouth over hers, prolonging the sweet torture of this last kiss. He brushed over her again, then pulled back just a bit, drinking deeply of her whiskey-colored eyes this one final time from so close. In them, he found the emotions surely reflected in his own. Longing. Hunger. Sorrow. And also love, born of a friendship that grew beyond its bounds. Again, he lowered his face to hers, and this time claimed her mouth with the hunger of a starving man. The tip of his tongue played along her lips, coaxing, cajoling, teasing her into meeting him. She responded with the same fire, the same hunger. Their tongues danced a slow, intimate waltz in that place where the two met and became one.