Dream Me Off My Feet
Stevie Kisner
Copyright 2012 by Stephanie Kisner
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without prior written consent, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover Illustration Copyright © 2012 by Stephanie Kisner
Cover design by Stephanie Kisner/Taryn Elliott
Brand names, logos and trademarks used herein remain the property of their respective owners. The listing of any firm or their logos is not intended to imply any endorsement of or direct/indirect affiliation with this work of fiction.
For my husband. Thank you for your rock-steady belief.
No matter what.
Huge, huge thanks to Barbara, Mary Ann, Elise and Jamie for reading and encouraging, and to Claire Jane for telling me I can do anything. A standing ovation to Taryn for handholding, buttkicking, listening to me whine, and pushing me out of the nest. You’re all rockstars.
And finally, thank you to the music and musicians for sharing what moves your soul so it could move mine. And for letting me borrow your first or last names. You may not know how much your music has meant to me through every hill and dale of my life, but I do. And I couldn’t have done it without you.
Table of Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Epilogue
Prologue
She read over the latest chapter before posting it to the fan-fiction e-mail list. Some women who posted there didn’t give a whit for form, function, grammar or punctuation, but she was a stickler for it and proofed everything one last time before putting it up for public consumption.
She lit a cigarette, leaned forward in her comfortable chair (it was her one writer’s luxury, a high-backed leather executive number with extra lumbar padding) and began to read.
Chapter 5.
She had never hidden from Paul that she thought JT was a very sexy man. Sex exuded from every molecule of his body, and even more so after a gig. He poured himself out on that stage and the audience lapped him up and begged for more.
Rather than draining him, it stoked his energy; by the end of the last encore, Cherie swore if she squinted just right, she could see tiny sparks shooting from his hair. He often stalked from the stage afterward, full of adrenaline and lust. She knew it was a difficult vow he had made to his longtime girlfriend. Yet he honored it still; she never saw him go looking for a willing fan to find the release he craved. He was beginning to get that same look about him now, all energy and trailing sparks.
This time, however, he was aiming that look at her. Cherie, too, felt the same longing, but she was Paul’s girl, and the attraction she felt for JT could never be addressed. She would not put their future in jeopardy for her own selfishness. She broke the gaze, looking instead at Paul.
To her surprise, he’d been watching the unspoken exchange. In his eyes she saw the glitter of lust as well. What was he planning? He rose from his chair, never breaking eye contact with her. “Would you mind if JT takes a look at your wrist, love? I’m still worried about that sprain from when you tripped. He’s hurt himself playing soccer often enough that he’ll have a clue just how serious it is.” He looked to his bandmate. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” he told JT, then stepped into the bathroom and closed the door. They heard the shower begin to run.
JT rose and walked over to her. As he neared, she was certain that she could see the sparks. When he knelt before her and took her hand, she felt them. Carefully, he unwrapped the elastic bandage, then took her reddened wrist in both of his hands, rubbing gently with his thumbs to soothe the indentation the bandage left behind. Another electric thrill shot up her arm. She studied his face; his eyes were on her wrist, checking for anything more than a faint tinge of red on her pale skin. He brought her wrist to his mouth, tenderly brushing his lips across the marks on the soft underside. She was enthralled by his look of concern. He raised his eyes to meet hers, and the look of raw wanting in them was unmistakable. I could drown in those eyes of sea green if only he keeps looking at me that way.
JT trailed his lips down to her hand. He placed a soft kiss in her palm, his eyes never leaving hers. Good God, this man is enticing. Her anticipation reflected in her widening gaze. JT kissed her palm again and this time there was no mistaking his intent. This was not meant to soothe any longer. His lips dragged a slow tantalizing path to the end of her forefinger, then parted to pull the tip gently inside with his tongue. Her head dropped back and she let out a soft moan as her eyes drifted closed.
This was such sweet torture. She didn’t hear him move but his breath, hot and sweet, drew close to the skin on her neck. A kiss so light that it almost wasn’t there, just a soft brush of his lips on her throat. Cherie held still, afraid of breaking the spell. His lips traced, ever so lightly, the curve of her jaw, his breath coming a little harder, a little faster, tickling in her ear. He landed a small kiss there, pulling at her earlobe with infinite tenderness.
“Cherie,” he whispered. “Paul knows that I want you.” He paused while she absorbed this. She never realized that it wasn’t just unfocused sexual energy he had been generating. It had been a desire for her that he’d been holding in check.
“And he knows that you want me. So did I. It was in your beautiful golden eyes. I could see your desire burning there.” More hot breath in her ear as he nibbled her lobe, but oh so gently. “It’s all right, ma Cherie. We have his blessing in this.” His hand went to the skin on her throat, fingertips tracing small patterns up and down the sensitive flesh. “If you still want me,” he whispered.
Cherie tried to open her eyes, fighting lids heavy with desire. Her lips parted with a whimper. His mouth still at her ear, his breath still tickling seductively inside, he whispered to her again. “So, ma Cherie, you want me, don’t you? You want to feel my hands on your body as much as I want to feel you underneath my fingertips? You want to feel my lips on you as much as I want to taste your skin?” Another gentle tug on her earlobe, the tip of his tongue brushed her flesh.
All she could manage was a low gasp as she reached up to graze her fingertips through his hair. The light touch inflamed his desire. Dragging his hand to her cheek, he turned her face to his and she saw the blazing light in his eyes. His face drew closer, his breath fanning hot and fast on her cheek. His lips met hers with the lightest touch, as if afraid he might bruise them. When he tugged at her lower lip, it was trembling. With an inarticulate murmur, he pulled her face closer, finally kissing her full lips…
****
She skimmed through the remaining pages, then sat back, nestling into the extra-thick cushion of the chair, and sighed, pleased with today’s work. I hope it’s not too
hokey or over-the-top for them. They can be a funny bunch sometimes. What is okay for some women to write is not okay for others. When she’d first stumbled onto the emailing list through the recommendation of a friend-of-a-friend, she didn’t even know such things as emailing lists existed, let alone what they were. Her friend had explained that it was a subscription of sorts where you send one e-mail to one address, and everyone who has chosen to be part of the group receives it. One address, hundreds of recipients, and a great way to share laughs and make friends.
She was fairly new to the mailing list group, and was still trying to figure out what was acceptable and what was not. No matter, I write it how it comes to me, and if they don’t like what I have to say, I guess they don’t have to read it. She was simply happy to have an outlet for her creativity at last, where someone other than her husband could read what she thought of as her ‘twisted erotic ramblings.’
Besides, writing fan-fiction was far easier than coming up with characters out of whole cloth. She took people who already existed, in this case her favorite band, made up their personalities and adventures, and wrote it down. No need for much description of their appearance and backstory was a non-issue, since the only people who read it already knew the band’s history. This left her free to develop the actual storyline and give her writing skills a workout.
She clicked on the send button and watched the taskbar on her computer as it slowly filled and crept across the screen. She cursed having only dial-up as it took almost a full minute before the ‘Send Task Successful’ message was displayed. Bye-bye, baby. I hope they like you.
She glanced at the clock. Crap, how did it get to be almost three in the morning? She rubbed her eyes, tired beyond belief, and resigned herself to another night of only two hours sleep. Yawning, she shut down her computer and turned off the small desk lamp. She shuffled off to bed, remembering to hit the ON button of her cursed alarm clock before snuggling into the warm arms of her sleeping husband.
****
The e-mail popped into his inbox shortly after eleven a.m., the computer chiming to announce its arrival. He had been standing at the window, watching the morning sun burn away the fog of another English morning, smoking one of far too many cigarettes already today, and pondering the band’s upcoming tour of America. He stubbed out the half-smoked butt as he sat down to peer at the screen. And smiled.
Ah, the further escapades of myself and Cherie. I’m so glad I was curious to see what was being said about us and found this fan-fiction mailing list. Some of these women write good smut. But I can’t ever let on that I’m here; it was bad enough having to fake my way on as a female fan. And this one, she’s fabulous; it’s a shame it’s wasted on this little group. But at least I’m one of them. He smiled wider, lit another cigarette destined to be put out half-smoked, and jumped headfirst into the heated tale on his computer screen.
One
“That her?” one man said to the other.
“Now, how in the hell should I know that? I’ve never met her. This is where the concierge said she worked, so, maybe it’s her, maybe it’s not.” The taller man was irritated with his companion, making his Yorkshire burr more pronounced. They were staying at the Hyatt resort just minutes away. It was a rather long ride to the show venue, but was close to the soccer fields where they were to play in a charity match in a few days, had its own golf course, and was only thirty minutes to Santa Fe, which Paul Ross, their lead guitarist, had insisted they visit this time. Something about wanting to see an unsupported spiral staircase in some old church. Bloody tourist, he was.
They played with the sunglasses in the rack near the front of the drugstore, surreptitiously watching her work in the on-site photo lab. Didn’t want to embarrass themselves if she didn’t know who they were, or cause a stir if she did.
The concierge said she was on the short side; she looked to be about five-foot-four. And blonde—she had the right hair, too. The concierge made a point about her eyes: big, round, denim-blue, but with a piercing, assessing gaze. He also told them she was ‘solidly built,’ whatever that meant. And she was always singing along to something playing in the back of the lab, but the volume was kept too low to hear exactly what it was.
He wished she’d look up. He could only see the top of her head over the half-wall which divided her work area from the rest of the store. She was looking down at something, and it was obvious she was bopping her head slightly to some unheard beat.
As if she heard his thoughts, she looked up, glancing around to see if there was anyone waiting for service. Well, there were those blue eyes. Noticing no one, she looked back down, nodding her head once to a particularly strong beat.
He wondered what music she was listening to, and found himself hoping it was theirs. “Hey, Clay, let’s get a little closer. She’s singing along to something, and I want to hear it. Besides, I see some certificates hanging on that wall. With pictures on them. Maybe one of ‘em’s her.”
At that moment, an ancient stoop-shouldered woman with blue-rinsed hair shuffled up to the photo counter and said something. The blonde looked up and smiled, nodding. She emerged from behind the half-wall.
The first thing JT noticed was the oversized lab coat that reached to her knees. Couldn’t really tell what she looked like under there, but her black denim-clad calves were either stout or rather muscular.
“Huh. She’s a bit chubby for your tastes, isn’t she, JT?” Clay leaned closer to mumble his comment.
JT rolled his eyes. “We’re here to look for a photographer while Russell is down with the flu, remember? I’m not tryin’ to get laid.” Both pairs of eyes watched her as she walked toward the back of the store.
“Now’s our chance to look at those pictures,” JT said, already heading toward them. Clay trailed a few steps behind, walking slowly. He sighed, wondering why they couldn’t just ask her.
JT pushed back his baseball cap and lowered his sunglasses, peering at the plaques over the tops of the lenses. “Well, there’s the name—Korina Conner. But that picture sure doesn’t look like that woman who was just here.” It was true—the photo showed a younger, heavier woman with almost-brown hair. But the eyes looked the same.
“Shit. Here she comes. She could be a roadie—look at her!” The phototech emerged from a side door carrying five cardboard-encased twelve packs of soda. One in each hand, plus two tucked and balanced under one arm, one more under the other. She put them into the elderly woman’s shopping cart. “So maybe she’s not fat, she’s just strong. Wouldn’t mind a pretty face loading my kit in and out. She sure looks better than the fugly, smelly guys we got now,” Clay finished.
The pair had retreated toward the front wall when they saw her approaching, loaded down with Dr. Pepper and Diet Pepsi. They watched as she placed a hand on the old woman’s shoulder and gave her a light hug. “It’s no problem, Mrs. Suazo. Anything else you need for your granddaughter’s birthday party, you just ask me,” she smiled. She didn’t sound breathless at all from the load she had been carrying. Her voice was strong, and on the deep side for a female. They watched as she turned and stepped lightly back toward her photo equipment.
And tripped over air. Pinwheeling her arms, she caught her balance before she could truly stumble; the men had to hold in their laughter as she looked accusingly at the floor, trying to find what tripped her. Seeing nothing but dust, she shook her head and continued into the lab area. “Still want her carrying your kit, Clay?” JT smirked. Graceful she definitely was not. But she carried it off with aplomb. Not everyone could look klutzy yet poised at the same time. She must have had a lot of practice.
Clay considered her. “Ah, no. Not unless she carries only one piece at a time. Still, she’s gotta smell better than the roadies do.” He took a step back and brushed against something on the wall. It was a photograph attached to a sign. It read This is what 400 speed film can do. It was a close-up shot of a bassist they knew, Jules Scott, standing under a red spotlight. “Oh, man, Paul woul
d love this,” he murmured, peeling it down from the sign. On the back was a handwritten copyright: KConner, 9-29-08. “Whoa, this was taken right before the car accident that killed him.” Clay tucked the picture into his pocket.
“What’d you take that for? I’m sure she’d have just given it to you, if you asked her,” JT admonished.
“It’s for Paul. Jules was his friend. And we’re not here to talk to her, remember? Just to find out if it’s her, if she’s the same one Stu is giving the photo pass to tomorrow. She is good.”
JT noticed another photo on a sign above the 800-speed film. This one appeared to be David Lee Roth with a receding hairline, backlit by pink and yellow spots. It was a close-up shot of his face, hair blowing in the breeze; it looked like a miniature poster. He twisted the paper to see the back: copyright KConner, 8-30-08. “Yeah, she is good. Very good.” He hoped for similar shots of himself and the rest of the band. He yanked down the picture and slid it into the back pocket of his shorts.
“What’d you do that for?” Clay asked. “You just gave me shit for taking one, and now you go and do it yourself!”
“I’m considering this her audition. I want to show it to the guys, so they know what she can do. That’s all. C’mon, Clay, this is Dave Roth—I mean, who’s gonna miss him?” Clay grinned.
They decided to do a bit of necessity shopping; after all, this was a drugstore, and so far, they’d been left to themselves. Clay snagged a cart and headed for the shampoo. JT decided to sidle closer and try to hear what she was singing. Besides, having lost several cheap digitals, he needed another throw-away-type camera for the photo bit he always did before performing “Snapshots and Memories.” He really did take pictures of the audience, and he really did have them developed. He liked having his own mementos of those happy crowds.
She was back behind the half-wall, and it looked as though she was wearing black sleeves pulled halfway up her arms, but hands-first backwards. She was looking down and singing softly. He still couldn’t hear what the song was, but he watched her mouth, watched her move her head to what seemed to be a varying beat. Whatever it was, she was very into it. Moving like she was the singer, expressions crossing her features as she sang. Suddenly her face sobered, all traces of enjoying a song erased. “I’ll be with you in just a minute, as soon as I’m done in the darkroom bag,” she called out over the wall without looking up. So she had noticed him after all. Crap.
Dream Me Off My Feet (Sex, Love, And Rock & Roll) Page 1
