by Nicole Fox
I stood in front of where she sat on the stool, her sexy fucking lips at eye-level with my now-more-than-half hard-on. I tried to pay attention, but all I could really think about was what else she could do while she was down there.
“Seat comfy?” I asked.
“Oh!” she said, as if totally unaware of what she was doing. “Sorry!”
She hopped out of the seat, now standing only a few inches from me.
“I never got your name, by the way,” she said.
I wasn’t sure what this girl wanted—a spot as my opening act, a job, or some dick. Or maybe all three. But she was persistent, whatever it was.
“Zane Brash,” I said. “Now, Roxy Sinclair. Is there anything else I can help you with?”
Her eyes moved over the drum set, taking it in.
“Damn,” she said, awe in her voice. “Is this one of the DW collectors sets? Heard they were fucking awesome.”
I couldn’t help but crack a smirk listening to this girl talk. She had a funny blend of “bad bitch rocker girl” and “doe-eyed groupie” that I couldn’t help but find a little charming. That killer body didn’t hurt matters much either.
“Yep,” I said, watching her tap the tom with the tip of her red-painted fingernail. “Got it about a year ago.”
“Can’t imagine what Vampire Hideaway would sound like with one of these driving the rhythm. My drummer’s still using some cobbled-together kit that he learned on.
I should’ve sent this girl packing, but the more I talked to her the more I wanted her to be my special guest for the night. I took a quick sweep over the audience, noting the couple dozen girls all shooting fuck-me eyes in my direction. Getting laid after a gig was like catching a bear by wandering into the woods dressed up in raw meat. The only problem was deciding which one I wanted. But little Roxy here was making it very, very easy for me to make a decision.
“Man, you can tell just how quality it is just sitting behind it,” she said, looking over the gear with a discerning eye. “And the ax your lead singer is playing—shit, I’d kill for one like that.”
The girl knew her stuff. But the gear on stage wasn’t what I was really interested.
“Come grab a drink backstage with me,” I said. “I’m ready to get out from under the stage lights.”
She nodded eagerly, as ready as I was.
Chapter 5
Roxy
I couldn’t get over just how fucking hot Zane was. He was even more mouthwatering up close. Those ice-blue eyes of his were so intense that it was almost too much to make eye contact. And I went back and forth between staring at both his thick, powerful-looking arms and the tattoos that covered them.
And now here I was, heading backstage with him. It was enough to make a girl weak in the knees. My head was swimming, and I couldn’t tell it if was from the sexual excitement or the vodka cranberries. Probably both.
We went up a flight of stairs and ended up on a small balcony that looked over the neighborhood. I leaned against the railing, the wrought-iron cool against my arms.
“Let me grab a couple of beers,” he said, stepping back into the small room we’d just come from and returning a few moments later with a pair of frosty bottles of domestic.
He popped the bottle caps off with a twist of his shirt-wrapped hand, the action giving me a lovely, brief glimpse of his shredded abs. Zane passed me a bottle and we both took our sips, saying nothing for a moment as we looked out over the city scene below. I wanted to speak, to say anything to break the silence.
“You guys were so fucking amazing,” were the words that finally came tumbling ungracefully out of my mouth.
Zane’s gorgeous mouth twisted into a little sneer.
“Thanks,” he said, not sounding like he’d meant it at all.
I knew I should’ve stopped there, but I couldn’t help myself. I went on like a damn starstruck teenager.
“I mean, when you all started I knew that I was in for something amazing, but you all just got better and better with each song! By the time the encore rolled around, I felt like I was going to pass out!”
I’d always considered myself something of a cool-as-a-cucumber sort of girl, but something about Zane was making me as obvious and fawning as could be.
“Thanks,” he said again, his tone making it clear that he’d had more than his fair share of groupies lavishing him with compliments. “We’re all pretty busy with the MC, but we try to make sure we keep up with our practicing—stay good and tight.”
“Wait,” I said. “What’s an MC?”
“Motorcycle club,” he said.
Then he pointed to one of his tattoos, one of a fearsome-looking demon riding on the back of a massive bike. The words “Marauders” were written below in Old English font.
“The boys in the band and I are all in it.”
“That’s … so cool,” I said.
As soon as the words left my mouth, I vowed to cool it with the compliments. But I couldn’t help it— something about Zane made me feel helpless before him. The feeling scared and thrilled me all at the same time.
“It’s something, all right,” he said.
I tried to change the subject; it was clear that Zane wasn’t the type to talk himself up all that much. Hell, when you were a guy like him, why would you even need to?
“You guys play here a lot?” I asked. “The people in the crowd seemed to love you, like they’d been to every one of your shows.”
He raised an eyebrow and a quizzical expression formed on his face, one that seemed to suggest that I was missing a critical piece of information.
“You could say that,” he said. “This is, uh, one of our favorite venues. And I’m in pretty good with the owner.”
I couldn’t help but feel like there was a joke going on that I wasn’t in on. Then the feelings inside of me caused something else, something even more strange, to blurt out of my mouth.
“You know the owner?” I asked. “Damn, you should let me meet him. I mean, I’d do anything to play here. Like, anything.”
The emphasis on the last “anything” wasn’t lost on Zane.
“Anything, huh? Tell me what you have in mind by that, exactly.”
I should’ve taken the opportunity to get out while I was behind. But, of course, I went on.
“You know … ” I said, trailing off a bit. “I wouldn’t be averse to a little quid-pro-quo.”
“That right?”
“Sure, why not? I mean, you’re a big band now, but you have to know how brutal it is to make a name for yourself from the ground up. You need to take advantage of any opportunity you have, you know?”
Zane’s interest was clearly piqued.
“And you think that offering your body up to some sleazy bar owner is just the advantage to get ahead?”
“Maybe.”
“Two things about that,” he said, sticking out his index and middle fingers from around his beer bottle. “You ever seen the average bar owner in this city? Most of ’em are middle-aged, balding, and have a body fat percentage and an IQ that both meet around sixty. And what’s more, what makes you so sure that he’d even go for you?”
I was a little taken aback by that.
“I mean, I know I’m cute,” I said. “At least cute enough to seduce a bar manager.”
“And what if it’s a woman?” he asked. “You never know.”
His cocky little smirk made it clear he was screwing with me. I took a long sip of my beer, hoping that I could buy myself enough time to come up with some kind of snappy retort.
“I’m just ready to do whatever it takes,” I said. “Music is my life, and I don’t care what price I have to pay to make it, I’ll pay it.”
“Famous last words,” he said, taking a swing and pulling down half of his beer, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in a way that I couldn’t take my eyes off of. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you of the whole ‘be careful what you wish for’ thing.”
“Yeah, yeah,�
� I said, swiping my hand dismissively through the air. “I mean, I’m not going to sell my soul to the devil or anything. Just want to give myself a leg-up over the competition.”
“Or a legs-open.”
I chuckled and rolled my eyes.
Then a strange look came over Zane’s face. He cast me a side-eyed glance, as if trying to figure out just what my angle was. He drained the last of his beer and dropped the bottle into the dumpster on the street below, the bottle landing on the garbage bags with a soft thud.
“I’m gonna get back in there,” he said.
Then, without another word, he turned and headed through the room that led to the balcony, not waiting for me. I watched him for a moment, surprised that he would just leave me like that. I finished the rest of my beer with a hurried sip and rushed after him, barely sidling through the door as it shut behind Zane.
“Head down that way,” he said, pointing down one of end the hallway, not even looking over his shoulder as he walked. “It’ll lead you back to the main bar.”
And with that, Zane ducked around a corner and disappeared. I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out just what had happened. I mean, I guess I’d sort of assumed that he was taking me back here to make a move or something. And maybe that had been the direction that things had been going. But everything had seemed to turn on a dime when I said that I wouldn’t have a problem sleeping with the owner to get a gig here.
Was it possible that he was totally disgusted by that? Maybe that was the case, but he didn’t really seem like the type to have some sort of moral objection to what I’d said. Was it possible that this rough-looking biker-drummer was really an old-fashioned gentleman or something deep down, the kind of man who wouldn’t take kindly to the idea of a woman trading her virtue for a boost to her career?
It was all so strange. In something like a daze, I headed back to the bar. The place was still lively, the crowd still there and keeping the place just about full to capacity. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I headed back to the stool where I’d been seated before and ordered another drink.
“The owner’s available now,” said the bartender, placing my vodka cranberry in front of me. “He’s still busy with shit here and there, but if you hang out for a little bit he might be able to swing by and talk to you.”
“That would be fucking awesome,” I said, my heartrate rising at the idea.
The bartender nodded and headed off, leaving me wondering if I’d actually go through with what I’d said to Zane. What if he was right? What if the owner was some old slob with some big ugly gut or something? As soon as I considered that, I felt gross for even having whether the guy was good looking or not be a factor in the decision.
But more than anything, the conversation with Zane lingered in my thoughts. I couldn’t get him out of my mind before, and now it was even worse on account of trying to understand why his attitude towards me had changed so abruptly.
I sipped my drink and thought, wondering just what this night was going to bring.
Chapter 6
Zane
I stepped into my office, pulling off my shirt as I did and shutting the door behind me. I had that musky scent of cheap beer and sweat that always hung on me after a show. I loved it, but knew that it wasn’t the most professional odor to have lingering on my body when I was in manager mode.
I took a glance at the full-length mirror on the back of the door, taking note of the flat, chiseled plane of my stomach. Between work and the MC, I’d been slacking on my usual gym routine and was pleased to see that my body hadn’t started to go soft yet.
Dress shirt after dress shirt hung in the closet in my office. I pulled one out, a chambray button-up, and slipped it on over my shoulders. But as I stood in front of the mirror checking out the fit, I couldn’t help but think about Roxy. That girl was trouble—I’d gotten the sense right away, and her little spiel about sleeping with the manager had only sealed the deal.
And she was the worst kind of trouble: the kind who didn’t think that was what she was. She was the type of girl who’d bend over a desk for a leg-up and when it was done, tell herself that it “wasn’t who she was” and that it was just a one-time thing.
Damned if she wasn’t about the hottest little piece of ass I’d ever seen in my life, though. It hadn’t escaped my attention that our conversation about the little hypothetical tit-for-tat meant that I’d be the one whose cock she was bouncing on.
I shrugged my shoulders as I buttoned the shirt up, trying to work out the sexual tension that formed tight knots in my muscles. I rolled the sleeves up, forming tight cuffs around my ropey forearms, my tats on full display. Once I was dressed, I headed out of the office and back onto the bar floor. Rocker-mode was over; now it was time to be the boss.
Standing by the door, I crossed my arms over my chest and took in the scene. The place was still packed from the show, and throngs of customers here and there sipped their drinks and chatted, the house music playing in the background.
A pair of drunk guys in their early twenties caught my eye. The two looked to be sizing one another up with cutting expressions. The two men stood feet apart from each other, neither of them saying a word. Their shoulders were square, their jaws worked under their skin, and their hands formed tight fists.
It didn’t take a genius to see that a fight was about to break out.
I knew it was time for me to step in. I cut across the floor, weaving through the crowd and arriving just in time to grab the fist of one of the guys mid-swing, holding it in place.
“You boys having a little dispute?” I asked, my hard gaze flicking back and forth between the two.
The man whose fist I held struggled to break free from my grip for a few moments before realizing that I clearly overpowered him. Once the understanding set in, his arm went slack. But I didn’t let go.
“This motherfucker’s trying to screw my goddamn girl!” said the other man.
I glanced behind him and spotted two cute-ish younger girls watching the scene unfold with wide eyes. It was stupid relationship drama, a couple of hot-headed guys with short fuses and too much booze in their systems—the same story behind just about every fight to break out at a bar. Well, that and matters of “respect.”
“I don’t give a shit who’s fucking who,” I said. “You assholes know who I am, right?”
The men nodded. So did the girls, and I noticed their eyes flick up and down my body as they did. But sex was the last thing on my mind right then.
“Good,” I said. “So we’re not all completely blasted out of our minds on booze. If you dumbasses know who I am, then you know what bar you’re in. And if you know what bar you’re in, then you know the number-one fucking rule of this place, right?”
More nods.
“Then let’s hear it,” I said.
The men both looked at each other for a moment, then spoke.
“No fighting,” they said in unison, with the defeated tones of a couple of kids caught misbehaving.
“That’s right. No fighting. And what were you two about to do right before I took time out of my busy night to step over?”
“Fight,” they both said.
“Good—we’re smart enough to know how we’ve fucked up.”
The man’s fist went limp in my hand—the fight was going out of him by the second.
“Now, because I managed to get this fight stopped before it started, that means you all technically didn’t break the rules. That means you kids have two choices: you can sort whatever beef you two got going on diplomatically, like men, or you can head down the block to that shithole Boozehounds. Buck and his boys would be more than happy to cheer you two on while you throw shitty, drunken punches at one another.”
More defeated nods.
“So what’s it gonna be?”
The two men exchanged a look, one that seemed to indicate that they were on the same page.
“We’ll stay here,” one of them said.
&n
bsp; “We agree on that?” I asked the other.
“Yeah,” he said.
“Good,” I said, letting go of the first man’s fist. “This is your final warning. Next time you two want to start some shit, your ugly mugs are going right up on the ‘banned’ wall.”
I was over it. I gave the group one last look over, the girls flashing me expressions that made it clear that they were there for the taking. But I wasn’t interested in that right then; I was more concerned with keeping my bar running. I’d been in enough places like mine to know that as soon as fights started breaking out, your bar became a certain type of place—the type of place that I wasn’t interested in mine becoming.
