Rockers After Dark: 6 Book Bundle of Sexy Musicians

by Chase, Deanna

  Sometimes I feel like those guards who stand outside Buckingham Palace. And like those long-suffering buggers, I have also perfected the art of remaining still and giving no reaction at all.

  “Are you blue all over?” he slurs with a drunken sideways grin.

  As a street performer, you have to take the rough with the smooth. When you put yourself out there, you’re going to encounter every facet of society: the good, the bad, and the drunk off their arses. Kids are the best. They haven’t yet lost the sense of wonder that makes them stare up at you and truly believe you’re some sort of blue-fairy-bird-woman-thing.

  “That’s a real nice rack,” says another of the stag partiers.

  Yeah, you try carrying it around all day and dealing with the back problems, and then tell me how nice it is, I think. Soon they lose interest and continue on their way. A half an hour passes, and several more pedestrians throw some coins into my hat.

  The moon is full tonight, a round white orb perched amid the stars. I want to go up there and see what everything looks like from on high. I flutter my wings and prepare for flight, flapping them through the air and then leaping into the sky. My ascent is an easy one. I pluck a star out of the blackness and stick it in my blue hair as an adornment. When I reach the moon, I find a comfortable spot and sit. Leaning my chin on my hand, I gaze back down at the street. The people look like tiny black ants, the buildings like less brightly coloured blocks of Lego.

  I blink, and I’m back on my box, back on the street. I was never really on the moon. My wings are a pretty accessory, but they’re useless for flying. Sometimes I can imagine things so hard that I feel like they’re really happening.

  My eyes catch on a group of people I recognise. They all play in the symphony orchestra at the concert hall where I work as a ticket attendant and bartender. I don’t talk to most of them, but I’m friends with a couple of the ladies. I know that one of the violinists is leaving to move to Australia with his family, so tonight must be his big send-off.

  Often on my breaks I’ll sit at the back of the hall and watch their rehearsals, allowing myself to be swept away with the music. My favourite sound is at the very beginning of their performances, when all the instruments clamour together to get in tune. It builds up this addictive sense of anticipation.

  I envy their lives as musicians, travelling the world and playing for amazing audiences in historic venues. It’s so much more beautiful than the life I live. I think a lot about the fact that I’m constantly near these people, and yet my reality is so far removed from theirs.

  None of them even know that the woman with the painted skin dressed all in blue is the same inner-city girl who sells tickets for their concerts and serves them drinks at the bar after their practices.

  In a way it’s quite a wonderful feeling. For a moment I am unchained from my own humdrum identity.

  By the time I withdraw from these thoughts, the orchestra musicians are gone. Slowly, I turn my head slightly to the left and find a new position. I stand in the same pose for fifteen minutes at a time, and then I’ll make an almost imperceptible move to ease some of the strain. It takes willpower and the patience of a saint to do this. Fortunately, I’ve had years of practice being responsible for my younger siblings.

  I’m all about the willpower, especially since I’m a recovering alcoholic who works in a bar. Most people say that to properly get over an addiction, you have to purge all presence of the drug from your life. I take a different approach. The fact that I can be around alcohol and not drink it, well, I like to think that makes me stronger. It’s been five years, and I haven’t touched a drop.

  Anyway, what with jobs being so thin on the ground these days, I can’t exactly afford to be picky. You’ll be amazed by what you can achieve when necessity sets in.

  Once I settle in my new position, I notice a man standing by the shuttered window of a shop on the other side of the street. He’s got brown hair in what my mother would have called a “gentleman’s haircut” when she was alive. It’s all neatly combed and swept to the side. His facial features are exotic yet not, giving the impression that he was born of a white father and an Asian mother — or vice versa.

  He’s just standing there staring at me, looking fascinated and a small bit lost. I sometimes encounter people like this. Adults who see me and are touched by whatever emotion my appearance has managed to evoke in them.

  These are the things I live for. Aside from the money, it’s the main reason why I do this.

  Up until this moment, though, I’ve never had someone I’m attracted to show a similar sort of wonder. His eyes crinkle in a smile. I think he knows that I’ve noticed him. A couple who have also been watching me for several minutes finally drop some money in my hat, and I give them a small bow for their generosity.

  My legs are starting to get a little too stiff, so I decide it’s time to call it a night. Stretching my arms up over my head and stepping down off my box, I pick up my money hat, fold it in half, and shove it into the box.

  The beautiful man across the street stands up straight when he sees me move. I pull off my wig and stick that in the box, too, loosening my real hair out of the tight bun I’d had it in under the wig. Making sure not to damage the feathers, I shrug out of the wings and place them inside as well.

  When I glance up, the man is standing before me, too close almost. His eyes are a deep golden brown, like a glass of fine brandy, and his features have a delicate masculinity. Strong yet vulnerable.

  “Hello there,” I say with a hint of amusement, pulling my long cardigan from the box and shuffling out of my blue dress. I always wear a light slip underneath.

  “Hey,” the man replies, watching as I fold the dress neatly and place it in the box before ducking into my cardigan. “You’re blonde,” he says then, eyes on my hair.

  I’d expected him to be foreign, given his semi-exotic appearance, but his accent is middle-class Dublin through and through.

  “That I am,” I answer, giving him a look as if to say, are we done here?

  It’s almost two in the morning, but the street still has quite a few people on it, so I don’t really feel on edge about this stranger standing near enough that we’re practically touching.

  His gaze travels down to my feet, a wry smile shaping his lips when he takes in my black biker-style boots. As he scans my bare legs, I feel a shiver run down my back, lingering erotically at the base of my spine.

  Hmm, it has been a while, and this man is utterly gorgeous. He’s wearing a dark suit with a white shirt, no tie. He hovers over me, standing only a couple of inches taller. His breath whispers across my skin, smelling faintly of gin.

  “Would you like to have a drink with me?” he asks, reaching out to run a hand through the waves at the end of my long hair.

  Despite his forwardness, it feels good to be touched. Sometimes it seems like no one ever touches me like this — just for the sake of it. I had a really stressful day with my younger brother Pete acting the brat; a little relief would be nice. A bit of physical interaction. Some skin on skin.

  Something thickens in the air between us as we make eye contact. The man sucks in a quick breath, his gaze flickering back and forth over my features.

  Once I have everything put away, I close my box, pulling it along on its wheels.

  “How about a quick shag instead?” I ask back, uncharacteristically brazen. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m never going to see this man again. He’s just what I need. A pretty stranger to lose myself in, to make me feel new again for a short while.

  He laughs out loud, thinking I’m joking. Then his eyes widen and his nostrils flare when he realises I’m being serious. A touch of red colours his cheeks, possibly displaying his embarrassment. His hand moves from my hair to my neck and strokes downward to my collarbone. He might be embarrassed by my proposition, but he wants exactly what I want. I can tel
l.

  “Okay, Bluebird, that sounds much better,” he says, breathing harshly now.

  Taking his hand, I lead him away from the main street and down a dark, secluded alleyway. I rest my box against the wall, and seconds later he’s on me. Hands in my hair, lips on my lips, tongue in my mouth caressing my tongue. He tastes nice, like toothpaste and an expensive dinner. I undo three buttons on his shirt, slipping my hand inside and feeling his taut nipples and hard, muscular pecs beneath.

  His hands move along my bare thighs to the backs of my knees, where he applies pressure and pulls my legs up around his waist. He holds me there, my back pressed hard against the concrete wall. His erection hits me right between the thighs now, nudging exquisitely in and out. All of his embarrassment has disappeared, his lust overriding it.

  “You smell great,” he rasps, sucking on my neck. “You want me up inside you, Bluebird?”

  “Yes, hurry,” I moan, allowing my face to fall to the hollow between his shoulder and neck. His hand slips inside my knickers, and he groans when he encounters my wetness. He shoves a finger in experimentally, and when I cry out he allows another to join it.

  I reach down and fumble with his belt, undoing his trousers and pulling them down just enough to free his cock. The next thing I know, he’s tugging my knickers all the way down my legs and shoving them into his pocket. He rummages in his other pocket and whips out a condom, which I suppose isn’t too unusual a thing for a man out late on a Saturday night to carry around with him.

  Rolling it on, he lifts his head to meet my gaze. He tilts his neck to the side, those gorgeous golden eyes hooded with desire. I don’t make a habit of propositioning random men on the street, and yet I have to admit that none of my previous one-night stands have ever progressed this quickly — or this smoothly. Usually there’s a bit of awkward fumbling before a rhythm is found, if at all, but with this guy it feels so natural. I guess the late hour has brought out my uninhibited, adventurous side.

  He positions his cock at my entrance, still holding my gaze, and pushes slowly into me, letting out a guttural, “Fuck.”

  I lock my legs tight around his waist, and he grips me firmly before he starts pumping into me fast. In this moment we’re base and animalistic. No reservations, no pretences, just two people seeking relief and some small piece of a human connection.

  “You feel…really good,” he groans, flicking his tongue along my earlobe.

  “Yeah, go harder,” I whisper, needing to be fucked so hard that I fall into the pleasure and forget.

  “You’re a dirty, beautiful little thing, aren’t you?” he says, a glorious smile on his face. He lets go of one of my legs and pulls down the strap of my slip, my cardigan hanging loosely at my elbows. Then he pulls free one of my breasts and moulds it with his palm, pinching the nipple. I sigh and undulate, biting my lower lip.

  “I’ll be whatever you want me to be — just fuck me harder,” I tell him, throwing my head back when he thrusts up into me deep.

  His eyes grow dark as he zeroes in on my mouth, then captures it with his lips. He slides his tongue in and out, as though mimicking the motion of his cock inside me. When he withdraws for air, I notice he’s got some of my shimmery white face paint on his cheeks and stains of it on the shoulders of his suit. For some reason, it makes me smile.

  “You like that?” he growls and I nod, unable to find my voice.

  His thrusts become even faster, harder, as he reaches down between my legs and rubs at my clit, coaxing me to orgasm. I can tell he’s going to come soon, so I let go, allowing myself to climax along with him.

  He’s got a delirious look on his face as he spurts into me, letting out a long, deep, stomach-clenching groan. The noise is the essence of male sexuality. My orgasm hits me quick and intense, shattering through my system.

  He holds me there long after he’s come, stroking my hair away from my face and cupping my cheeks. “I think I might have dreamt you,” he breathes, kissing one side of my mouth and then the other.

  That makes me grin wide. What a romantic thing to say to a woman who let you shag her minutes after you just met.

  “You’re a sweetheart,” I reply, giving him a soft kiss goodbye and then dropping my legs to the ground. I take a moment to right myself, fixing my cardigan back in place. Then I walk over to my box and grab the handle.

  “So, I’ll see you,” I say, dipping my head to him in farewell.

  He’s still leaning against the wall, trying to catch his breath. For a split second he seems taken aback by my abrupt departure, and then his cheeks redden like before.

  “Yeah, see you, Bluebird,” he replies with a sombre smile.

  Feeling him follow me out onto the street, I turn right at St. Steven’s Green in the direction of home. For a while it feels like he’s still behind me, but a minute or two later when I summon up the courage to look, he’s gone.

  Perhaps it wasn’t that he dreamt me. Perhaps I was the one who dreamt him.

  Chapter Two

  I live in an area of inner-city Dublin known as “the Liberties.” There’s a historical reason for the name, but essentially it’s similar to what they call “the Projects” in America. The name is ironic, because there’s little that’s liberating about living here. In fact, it often feels like the opposite way around.

  My house is on a street close to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, a short walk from where I had the encounter with my nameless stranger. I smell his cologne on me, something citrus and fresh. His spit and his sweat linger, too. It dawns on me that I never even asked him his name. When a soft breeze floats up my dress, I remember that he still has my knickers stuck in his suit pocket.

  The street is empty, apart from a group of teenage boys hanging out at the end of the row of houses. I eye them as I pull the front door key from my pocket and notice a familiar red baseball cap. Oh, it better fucking not be. Taking a closer look, I see that it is him, my fifteen-year-old brother Pete. For the last year or so he’s been hanging out with a bad crowd. It’s been an absolute nightmare trying to keep him on the straight and narrow.

  Opening the house door, I drop my box down in the hallway and then march my way toward the group. They all begin nudging each other as they see me approach, and then Pete turns around, a gigantic scowl on his face.

  “Get home now,” I tell him firmly, allowing my gaze to touch on each individual present.

  You can’t be eye-shy with these little shits. You have to show them that you mean business. It’s scary, because they’re all taller than I am and most likely carrying weapons, but when you strip that away, all you have left are scared little boys living in a world with no privileges. Some of them are a good deal older than Pete, too, maybe even eighteen or nineteen. And when eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds are befriending boys Pete’s age, you know there’s some variety of grooming going on.

  “Piss off, Jade. I’ll go home when I’m ready,” Pete hisses.

  Not bothering to retort, because I’m tired and want to go to bed, I simply step forward, twist his arm behind his back in a simple lock, and drag him away.

  “Hey, let go, you fucking strong bitch,” he yells, clawing at my hand.

  It’s true — I may not look it, but I am pretty strong, mainly because I practice Tai Chi twice a week at my local community centre. A lot of people don’t know that it isn’t all about waving your arms through the air and meditating. It’s actually a martial art as well. My teacher is a really cool hippy lady from France who only charges a small fee for the classes.

  A lanky, well-built boy steps up and spits just short of my feet, a snakelike grin shaping one end of his mouth. He gives me a squint-eyed look that only the truly inbred can do justice, and calls, “Your sister’s a fucking freak, Pete. Why don’t you give her a slap and teach her a lesson?”

  “I’ll give you a bloody slap,” I shout back. “And don’t be gettin
g mouthy — I know your mother!”

  I have no clue who his mother is, but it’s a tried and tested threat that always works to put wayward teenagers in their places.

  He spits on the ground one more time for good measure just as I shove Pete into the house and slam shut the door.

  When we’re inside he pulls away from me, cheeks red, clearly fuming. “Why’d you have to do that? You made a complete show of me, Jade!”

  “Good! If it keeps you away from scum like that, I’ll be happy to make a show of you every day for the rest of your life.” I pause, hand on my hip, taking in his appearance. He’s got grey bags under his eyes and looks paler than usual. I’ve been suspicious that he’s started smoking and selling marijuana, but I don’t yet have any proof. “Is this what you want for yourself? Do you know how long most teenagers who deal drugs last before they get caught and sent to prison, Pete? Not very long, let me tell you, especially considering how idiotically dumb most of them are.”

  “You’re the dumb one. You haven’t got a clue about anything. I hate you.”

  “If I’m the dumb one, then what does that make your aesthetically challenged friend out there?”

  Pete mouths the words “aesthetically” and “challenged” to himself like a question, shaking his head.

  “Whatever, Jade. Damo knows his stuff. He’s headed for big things. He’s also going to set me up with some work. I’ll make a tonne of money.”

  “The only big thing Damo’s headed for is slopping out in Mountjoy Prison. And if I see you anywhere near that tool again, you’ll regret it. Now get to bed.”

  “Fuck you.”

  I roll my eyes. “Ah, so sweet. Get to bed. Now.”

  With that, he turns on his heel and stomps loudly up the stairs. I drop down onto the last step and breathe an exhausted sigh.

  My mother died four years ago from lung cancer. She lived a hard life and smoked like a chimney, so it was only to be expected that the big “C” would take her. I miss her every day. Her death meant that at the ripe young age of twenty-two I had to step up and become the guardian of my three younger siblings. Alec is twenty-one now, so I don’t need to worry about him anymore, but I still have fifteen-year-old Pete and April, who’s seventeen, to look out for.