Ever After (Dirtshine Book 3)

by Roxie Noir

  “Can’t we have some sort of team cheer before we charge back out there?” I ask.

  “Goooooo wildcats!” Darcy says, very perkily.

  We all look at each other for a moment.

  “Tell me about these wildcats,” Trent says, a hint of a smile on his face.

  “Are we about to play children’s football, or are we some sort of dance squad...?” Gavin asks.

  “Does our routine have a lot of jazz hands?” I ask, wiggling my fingers in the air.

  “You guys are assholes,” Darcy says, flipping us all off, even though she’s grinning. “I try to build morale fucking once, do one nice thing, and you shit all over it.”

  “Rowr,” I say, and she waves her middle finger directly in my face.

  “All right, fucking seriously, though,” Gavin says.

  The lights over the audience go down, plunging the whole tiny theater into near-darkness, and the cheering starts. Suddenly, I’m lightheaded, dizzy, and I exhale all at once. I hadn’t realized I was holding my breath, because I feel like my veins have turned into a thousand live wires, all carrying ten thousand volts of electricity.

  This is it. It’s happening, not in some mad dream, but actually here.

  “Oi, Liam,” Gavin says, his voice hushed, his hand on my shoulder. “Breathe, mate, it’s not that bad.”

  I crack my knuckles one more time, flexing my fingers.

  “Let’s get on with it, shall we?” I say.

  In the dim light, the three of them are all smiling. It’s the first time in ages that we’re together like this, and I feel like I’m at the base of a mountain, looking upward to the sun cresting over the peak.

  Like some great fucking things are going to happen.

  “Go get ‘em, wildcat,” Darcy says as she punches my shoulder, and we walk out onto the tiny, dark stage.

  The second we step on the crowd starts screaming, the sound like a wall that hits me out of nowhere. It’s like being punched in the gut, if one could be punched with nostalgia.

  I sit behind the drums. It’s not the first time I’m glad that I’m at the back of the stage, seated, the least visible, but it’s the most intense because the screaming hasn’t stopped yet. If I listen closely enough, I can hear someone shouting my name at intervals, just one bloke who sounds like he’s way in the back.

  But he knows my name. He knows what I look like well enough that he can see it’s me back here, not someone else filling in from another band or whatnot.

  I grab my drumsticks, square my shoulders. The knot in my gut clenches and unclenches as I try to think of how Periwinkle Smile begins, and I can’t.

  Oh God, I can’t. It’s been too long since I’ve played, since I’ve been on stage. Even though we practiced this a dozen times in the last week my mind’s gone perfectly blank, my palms sweating.

  I don’t know how to do this sober, I think.

  I’ve not been on a stage sober in...

  ...Since...

  Jesus, I can’t even fucking remember.

  What if it was the heroin that made me good at this?

  What if the heroin remembered the songs, the drum fills, the right tempo, when to hit the cymbals and when to hit the bass drum?

  What if I was just along for the ride?

  They’ve all got their instruments on. Darcy tosses her hair, getting it out from under the bass strap. Trent’s left hand makes chords on the neck of his guitar, and up front, Gavin’s just breathing, head down.

  For a long moment, we’re just there. The screaming wanes and then intensifies, ebbing and flowing. Then it’s been too long, but I’m still frozen, the sticks feeling strange and alien in my hands. I can’t even think of which drum is which, and Darcy looks back at me, over her shoulder.

  “Dude,” she hisses.

  I open my mouth to whisper back it’s been too long, I forgot everything, I’m sorry Jesus Christ I’m fucking sorry, but then I look past her to the side of the stage, where two women with curly hair are both standing and grinning, whispering to each other excitedly.

  Frankie sees me watching her and laughs. She waves at me like she’s having the time of her life, and then all in a rush, the music comes flooding back and almost instantly, I snap the fuck out of it.

  “Right,” I call to Darcy, who looks faintly amused.

  I grab the sticks harder. Suddenly they feel like a part of me again, so I raise them over my head, count off: one, two, three, four.

  And we play.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Frankie

  That’s mine, I think.

  Mine.

  I can’t stop thinking it. It’s nearly the only thing I can think, standing here on the side of the stage, watching from the wings, next to Marisol.

  He’s mine. Everyone here wants him, but he’s mine.

  I can hear people shouting Liam’s name. Some are men, but plenty of them are women. I have to force myself not to look out into the crowd and find them, because I might launch myself out there and disembowel them.

  But then I’d have to stop watching Liam, and Jesus, I can’t. I never really got the rock star thing before right now, but now I’m under its spell, totally helpless against its power.

  The way his thick, sinewy arms come down again and again. The way his shirt is sticking to him with sweat, the way he shakes his hair out of his face.

  The way that Liam is the beat, is the music, the pure stomp-on-the-floor, shout-at-the-ceiling abandon of watching him do what he’s meant to. Every movement of his body just reminds me of what else he does with it.

  I could lick up the sweat running down his spine.

  He could push me against his drums, body rocking against mine, that perfect rhythm still flowing through both of us.

  It’s sex. It’s pure sex, pure animal magnetism, and if I weren’t so fucking captivated I’d be horrifically embarrassed that I’m standing here, next to Marisol, getting so turned on I’m uncomfortable.

  A song ends. The crowd cheers, screams, and Marisol and I both go, “Wooo!” and wave at the band.

  “Liam!” some bitch in the audience shouts, and I force myself not to scowl, because I’m being completely ridiculous, and I know it.

  But he looks over at me and winks.

  My breath leaves my body. The heat rushes to my face so hard that I have to look away, swallowing, like I’m an awkward pre-teen who just got caught glancing at her crush across her middle school classroom. I’m afraid that every filthy thought of what I’m about to do to him is written on my face, and anyone who can see me can tell exactly what I’m thinking.

  I blush harder. They start another song, and I exhale hard, not sure how much longer I can last.

  Dirtshine plays for two hours, then three encores. Finally, the venue’s management has to announce over the PA system that they have to stop, because there’s a noise restriction in the neighborhood after one in the morning and if they don’t, the police will come.

  “Fuck the police!” someone shouts.

  “Keep going anyway!” someone else shouts.

  The crowd cheers and whistles. The band laughs.

  “Thanks to the Troubadour for letting us do this,” Gavin says, his voice gone husky. “We’ve caused you enough trouble already, yeah?”

  “No!” everyone yells, the sound filling the small room, bouncing off the walls and ceiling.

  “How close are the cops?” Darcy asks into her mic. Across the stage, Trent shakes his head at her.

  “How fast can you run?” Liam asks, and everyone laughs again.

  Gavin looks up at the sound guy, in a loft over the bar.

  “Have we got time for one more?” he asks, and then pauses while everyone cheers, stomps, shouts. Even backstage it’s easy to get swept away, lost in the pandemonium. Right now, we’re all Dirtshine’s biggest fans, ready to follow them to the ends of the earth.

  Beyond it, maybe.

  I don’t know the band that well, but I know Liam and I can tell that r
ight now he’s fucking glowing with happiness, that he’s exactly where he should be, doing what he was meant to do.

  The man’s practically got sunbeams shining out of his ass right now, and Liam is not the sunbeams-from-his-butt type.

  “All right, he said we can do one more as long as you’re well-behaved,” Gavin teases the crowd.

  They scream, instantly. Gavin looks over his shoulder, at the band, says something to them I can’t hear over the din and seconds later, the bass line starts, thumping and rolling along.

  Guitar, drums, Gavin’s voice, and we’re all swept away one more time, transported somewhere besides this hot, sweaty club on Santa Monica Avenue.

  The song ends. Everyone shouts, screams, stomps, like they’re trying to get the neighbors to call the police.

  Gavin shouts “Thank you!” into the microphone, and the four of them walk off stage, the house lights coming up.

  I stand there, in the wings, stomach in knots, palms sweaty. My eyes are glued to Liam, standing, shoving his hair off his face, swaggering off the stage like he owns the whole fucking place.

  Look at me, I think. Please just look at me.

  I feel like a groupie. I feel like I’d do anything for ten seconds of attention from a sex god, like all I want is a smile, a nod.

  I suddenly understand why people feel like this, why girls wait backstage and flash their tits and scream for rock stars. I understand the stories of crazy debauchery, of women who’d literally stand in line for a chance to hop on a rock star’s dick for ten seconds.

  It takes all the self-control I’ve got not to scream his name and flash my tits, to tackle him and shove my tongue down his throat, because dear God I want to. I want to jump on him, tear his clothes off, fucking worship him every way I know how.

  Right here. Right now.

  I feel like I’ve lost my mind.

  But then the band is suddenly backstage. Out of nowhere, Darcy laughs and hugs me, then Marisol.

  “Thanks, guys!” she bubbles.

  “You were great!” I say, still trying to rein myself in.

  Gavin walks by, nods at me, grinning. Kisses Marisol hard, leaning her backward.

  It’s not just me, I think. She’s been doing this for ages and still—

  Liam appears in front of me, amidst the pandemonium. He’s still breathing hard, his shirt stuck to his body, the muscles in his thick arms standing out.

  “Hey,” I say, my heart in my throat because I’m fucking thunderstruck by my own boyfriend. “That was really—”

  He kisses me, his mouth crashing against mine, his hand already tangled in my hair.

  It’s pure and raw, so powerful that I’m swept away, instantly lost. I think I moan as I open my mouth under his, our tongues winding together. His teeth are on my lip, his hands already grabbing the waistband of my torn jeans, tugging my body into his.

  Liam grunts, teeth on my lip, tongue in my mouth, crushing his hips against mine. He walks me backward, against a curtain, then through it.

  I bite his lower lip, panting for breath, and he growls at me. My back’s against a cinderblock wall, and I arch against him. I grab the neck of his t-shirt, the shoulder, ball it in my fist. Kiss him so hard that my teeth hit his, one leg already wrapped around his hips.

  Liam lifts me, grinds his hard cock against my heat and I claw at him. I want him inside me now, so desperately that the clothes I’m wearing seem like insurmountable obstacles, something that needs to be torn away, and I tangle my hand in his sweaty hair, dragging his face toward mine yet again.

  But instead Liam puts his thumb over my lip. It’s dark and I can’t see his face very well, but there’s enough light that I can see the hunger in his eyes, the way his lips are red and swollen.

  I still feel high as fuck, worshipful, uninhibited and free, nearly insane with lust. Like I’d stand in line, get on my knees, crawl to him.

  “Tell me what you want,” I murmur, licking the pad of his thumb, salty with sweat. “Anything.”

  I suck his thumb into my mouth, swirling my tongue around it, staring into his eyes.

  “I want this every night,” he murmurs, watching me. Mesmerized.

  I keep going, sucking another knuckle into my mouth, his skin rough against my tongue.

  “I want to come off stage to find you there, waiting for me, fucking blown away and so wet for me you’ll let me fuck you behind a curtain where we’ll almost certainly get caught,” he goes on. “I want to play the drums and come inside you, Frankie, and I swear to God that’s all I’ll ever want.”

  He tugs at my jeans, unbuttoning them, shoving one hand inside my panties, roughly shoving his fingers past my clit and plunging them inside me. I moan around the thumb in my mouth and he pushes deeper, crooking them, making my whole body shiver at once.

  “I want you tonight,” he says into my ear, taking his thumb from my mouth. “And I want you tomorrow, and I want you the day after that and on and on.”

  I reach down, yank his jeans open, shove my hand inside. He’s rock-hard, throbbing with need, and he groans when I touch him, stroking him hard from root to tip, his mouth on mine again.

  I shove his jeans down, squirming, stand on one leg. Liam pushes his fingers deep one more time, takes them out.

  “Fucking jeans,” he says, and licks his fingers clean. “Next time wear a skirt, I’ll see how you like getting fucked against a wall.”

  I drop to my knees, his cock still in my hand, and I take him in my mouth as deep as I can, all at once. He hisses and groans, grabs my hair in his fist, and I swallow with the head of his cock pressed to the back of my mouth, his hand against the wall over my head like he’s leaning on it for support.

  I lick and suck, hand still around the base. He’s salty and sweet, throbbing and pulsing, his hand pressing me toward him, his body towering over me.

  At last I pull back, ready to swallow him again, but he holds me by the hair, the tip of his cock barely resting on my bottom lip.

  “Fuck foreplay,” he growls, and then Liam’s on his knees, too, shoving me back against the wall, kissing me savagely. I taste like him and he tastes like me, all of it melding together and combining in my mouth.

  I know there’s a curtain two feet away. I can hear the voices on the other side of it, talking about microphones and soundboards, and I know they can hear us just as well, but I don’t give a shit.

  “Fuck me on the floor,” I whisper, gasping. “Since I’m not wearing a skirt.”

  Liam doesn’t answer, just grabs my lower lip with his teeth, bites me until I gasp.

  “Say it again,” he says, reaching into his pocket.

  “Fuck me on the floor,” I murmur, my lips brushing his as I speak. “Fuck me anywhere you want.”

  I hear the familiar crinkle of foil as he kisses me again, savage and wild, both of us on our knees on the cold tile floor, the unmistakable sound of a condom.

  In the dark, I grab his wrist. The crinkling stops, our mouths still together, and I slide my hand over his, take the condom away from him.

  And I toss it into the dark, making a soft hiss as it slides across the floor.

  “That’s my only—”

  “Fuck me anyway,” I say.

  Liam grabs my hip, leans his forehead against mine, his fingers digging so hard into my back that I think he’ll leave bruises. He doesn’t answer me for a long moment, just holds me like I might melt if he loosens his grip one iota.

  “I want you bare,” I say, swallowing hard, suddenly nervous along with everything else. I trace my thumb below his lip, my hands nearly shaking with desire, I want this so bad. “I want to feel you, I want your skin on mine, I want to be close to you—”

  He closes the distance, crushes me, then just as quickly as that happened he’s pulling me back, spinning me around and I’m facing the wall.

  “Tell me I won’t knock you up,” he growls, tugging my jeans down over my hips as I brace my forearms against the cinderblocks.

  �
�You won’t,” I promise.

  He pulls my jeans again, past my knees, until they’re around my ankles and he shoves my knees apart, grabbing me by the hips and tugging me back, his thumbs finding my spine as he bites my clothed shoulder, groaning.

  He’s at my entrance, his warm skin against mine, sliding between my lips. I gasp, toes curling in anticipation, back arching. It’s not the first time we’ve fucked bare but it’s the first time I’ve meant to, the first time I’ve thought about it.

  Liam pauses for a split second, his breath hot on my neck. I open my mouth to beg him, because right now I’ll say anything, do anything.

  He fucks me in one stroke, hilting himself and I shout. My hands ball into fists, forehead against cinderblock as I groan his name like it’s a fucking prayer, his hands on my hips, pulling me back against him, making sure I can’t move whatever I do.

  “You make me fucking dizzy,” he gasps in my ear. “Has anything ever felt this right?”

  “No,” I whisper, my voice shuddering.

  I clench around him, try to move my hips, biting my lip so hard I taste blood. I need him to keep going, pin me against this wall and fuck me so hard I lose my mind, until I don’t know where I am or what my name is.

  He starts slow, hands on my hips. I can feel him grasping at self-control, a low raspy growl rising from deep in his chest. He sinks his teeth into my shoulder again as he thrusts all the way in, so deep I can barely move, my mind turning to static.

  “Do you know the noise you make when I fuck you like this?” he asks, his breathing rough and ragged in my ear.

  I squirm again, pussy clenching around him, but he just grabs my hips, pulls me back, holds me still.

  “D’you know the way your body begs me to fuck you harder and faster?”

  I swallow, unraveling.

  “No,” I whisper.

  “It’s like this,” he whispers, pulling out halfway, plunging back in.

  I exhale hard, back arching, hips flexing toward him.

  “Just like that,” he goes on, breathless. “And it’s fucking intoxicating, Frankie. Fucking addictive.”