My Biggest Fan

by Lea Bronsen

  Evernight Publishing

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2013 Lea Bronsen

  ISBN: 978-1-77130-530-3

  Cover Artist: Sour Cherry Designs

  Editor: Melissa Hosack

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  I want to thank my dear friend and talented author D.C. Stone for being there every step of the way. You have a heart of gold, and your help and support are invaluable.

  MY BIGGEST FAN

  Romance on the Go

  Lea Bronsen

  Copyright © 2013

  A series of loud raps on the bathroom door drowns out the impatient chants pulsating through the walls from the concert arena. The floor vibrates under my feet. I clench my tense fists in anticipation and prepare for the moment I’ll go onstage and affront the horde of screaming fans.

  “Shawn, get your ass out of there!” Ted Wilkinson’s voice thunders through the door. “Everybody’s waiting.”

  He’s our tour manager, a tall, lanky man with thinning hair, dressed in blue jeans and cowboy boots. Me and the boys call him Teddy. He strives to make our lives on the road miserable.

  “Yeah.” I stare at my reflection in the mirror and take a deep breath to slow my racing heartbeat.

  A couple sections of my short black hair have flopped down, and I apply more gel to spike them back up. I check the eyeliner that intensifies my dark brown eyes for smudges. A metal journalist once wrote in an article, Shawn Torien, the new Nikki Sixx? A chubby version of him, then. But beware of the wolf! I turn to the side and check out my profile. Lean, straight nose, firm jaw… Not bad for thirty four.

  When I founded the band in the mid 90s, I wore a nose chain like Rachel Bolan, but it kept getting stuck in girls’ hair and clothes, so it had to go. I still wear my jewels like a queen—silver rings on my nose, ears, fingers, navel, and what not. I swear, one day someone’s going to challenge me to have one pierced into my dick, too.

  Teddy’s voice roars through the door. “Shawn, for fuck’s sake!”

  In a hurry, old man? With a grin, I cock my head to check out the tattooed rattlesnake peeking out of my Sid Vicious shirt. I love it. Every time I look in the mirror, my eyes dart to the side of my throat and follow the long snake tongue licking along my artery.

  A little higher, tattooed in black below my ear lobe, are the words ‘Bloodless’. I don’t remember why I suggested that name for my band. I was pretty high at the time, but I still believe it’s cool enough for a groove rock band. For seventeen years, we’ve built our brand, acquired a solid following, and established our spot in the rock industry. As a result, tonight we’re about to play one of the largest stadiums in the States.

  Heavy banging shakes the door on its hinges.

  “C’mon, Teddy,” I say to the mirror and flash my teeth as if he were the one staring back. “I’m just gonna take a leak.” I need a shave, too, but that’ll be after the show. The chicks like a little stubble, anyway.

  I step toward the toilet, fish out my most precious belonging, and steer the yellow spray into the bowl. Relief rushes through my stomach, but what I’d rather have is a quick fuck before the show.

  Just thinking about it has blood rushing to my cock. Never had a problem getting it up, even when so stoned I can’t stand. As I shake the last drop, I stroke along the length. Heat rushes from my balls and to my chest. That’s all it takes. Another stroke and my cock stiffens for good. I close my eyes and breathe deep. Damn, what I’d give to have a girl in here taking care of things!

  I love pussy; the heightening of senses when I sink into the hot wetness of a female, our playful connection and building of tension as she meets my thrusts like a partner in crime; and the final explosion, total abandon, highest of delights, leaving me spent and breathless—and ready for more.

  Another voice sounds outside the door, more conciliate. Timmi Vain, our vocalist. “Seriously, man. Don’t do this to us. It’s our biggest show ever.”

  Behind closed lids, I picture the green-eyed, tanned rocker with the long, fluffy blond hair and molding spandex pants. He’s co-founder of the band, and we’ve written most of the lyrics for our nine albums together.

  He’s right. We’ve never played to this big a crowd. Forty-something thousand tickets have been sold, which is a definite sell-out, and so the media is on our ass, following our every move. I’m all about punk attitude and giving shit, but I don’t want to screw things up for the band.

  I glare at the door. “Yah, yah.” With a reluctant sigh, I stuff my hard cock back into my black leather pants and zip up.

  As soon as I turn the lock, the door is ripped open and Teddy is in my face with a scowl. I grin, step out, and dodge the balled fist he threatens to send. The funny old man can’t handle a punk.

  My heavy army boots clonk on the floor as I stride through the large backstage area, past couches, tables, and rows of framed photos on the walls. Hendrix, Joplin, Cobain…I salute the rock heroes with a nod and head toward the door leading to the stage.

  My technician—so-called roadie—Jaz, a heavy guy in sweatpants donning a Meatloaf haircut, holds it open with my shiny black bass guitar in hand. From his frown and tense gaze, I guess my rock star carelessness makes him nervous.

  Next to him, a new girl leans against the wall, eyes riveted on me. That’s odd. Teddy never allows them backstage before a show. But I’ve seen her somewhere. Then it hits—her picture’s featured on our record company’s website. She’s their webmistress, Samantha! I almost forgot they sent her to follow us for a few days and cover our life on the road.

  She’s a young brunette, early twenties probably, dressed in jeans. Her denim jacket with two KISS patches sewn on the chest is buttoned up. Too bad. I like seeing boobs before deciding if I want a chick or not.

  I still take the time to stop in front of her. She’s cute enough, with a heart-shaped face, full lips, and brown pupils fixed on me, containing so much heat I bet she’d melt old Teddy’s heart in a sec.

  I’m a head taller, and lean into her private space. She’ll be easily intimidated. It’s no secret she’s crushed on me since she was fifteen. On her bio page, she says it’s the reason she applied for the job.

  “You Samantha?”

  She nods with a huge smile, revealing perfect teeth. “Hi, Shawn.” The whole girl beams like a Catholic seeing the Virgin Mary.

  I grin back. “So, Sam…”

  “Samantha, please.” She cocks her head.

  Oh, man, are we going to have fun.

  “Sam,” I insist, wanting to tease her, “you’re the one with the monster crush?”

  Her face fills with redness as fierce as Teddy’s a minute ago. That was easy. You want to spend a few days with us? You’ll have to man up, little thing.

  I turn away grinning, tear my bass from Jaz’s hands, and step through the open door. To my left, the band members and remaining crew line up in a narrow, low-lit corridor, instruments in hand, scowling at me. There is the hired lead guitarist, Mike St. John, more of a heavy metaller with long dark curls and black leather; our drummer, Jeff, a weirdo with brown rasta hair and grunge-inspired shorts; Timmi the glam rocker. And at the end, their respective roadies.

  To my right, a black curtain hangs from the ceiling, separating us from the stage. A loud hum fro
m the impatient crowd pulses through the thick fabric. My fans are so close, I can almost feel them.

  My heart beats faster, the usual uncontrollable mix of excitement and nervousness. I’ll never get used to it. My body craves something, anything that’ll calm it. When we first started out, booze and drugs drowned our fears, but Teddy forbids us to use anything on this tour. At least before playing.

  As the leader, I get to go first. I swallow my stage fright and start jogging past the row of men, high-fiving each of them.

  “Fuck, man,” Timmi mutters as I teasingly bump into him, getting a whiff of his cheap hair spray.

  When I get to the end of the corridor, I take a second to breathe before sneaking out from behind the curtain, heartbeat in my throat.

  At ten pm, the night is black, but huge spotlights on metal pillars spread around the stadium light up the sky. A haze of damp heat floats above the crowd. The air is thick with sweat, cigarette smoke, and booze.

  Forty thousand faces greet me, near and far, young and old, guys and chicks, mouths wide open. An insane wall of high-pitched screams and incoherent movements punches my body, lifts me in the air, and like a magic carpet carries me to my spot on the right side of the gigantic, luminous stage.

  I’m dizzy, overwhelmed. I can’t breathe. My heart beats painfully in my chest. Frozen in front of my microphone stand, I clutch the wooden neck of my bass.

  After a moment of assessing and scanning the masses, I make out what they’re yelling. “Shawn! Shawn! Shawn!”

  My throat chokes and my stomach clenches. I stare back in disbelief, sweeping the stadium with my eyes. They’re so many, millions of ants moving at once, so anonymous in their multitude, most so far back in the venue I can’t even see them. But I want to thank each and every one for coming.

  The beaming faces turn centre stage, and a new roar hits me, once more punching the air out of me. I turn aside; my bandmates have taken their places. Like a kid in a candy store, Timmi jumps up and down in front of his microphone. To his left, Mike stares ahead with his eight-stringer hanging from his shoulder, plastic pick in hand, ready to set off the first riff. Behind, Jeff sits on his stool and throws a couple pivoting drum sticks in the air.

  Teddy’s thin, severe face peeks from behind the curtain, and nods to me when our eyes meet. Next to him appears Samantha, timid eyes darting around the stage and finding me. I grin.

  Timmi turns to me with a smile, and the way his deep green pupils sparkle fills me with happiness and pride. I take a deep breath and send him a wink. We did it, man, filled a stadium, reached stardom.

  He winks back, turns to the masses and yells into the mike. “How are you, people?”

  Laughing, euphoric, I turn back to the audience, and with a “Yeeeaaah!” so loud it scorches my throat, brandish a fist to the spotlights.

  Forty thousand fans reply cheering, hands pumping in unison, and wave after wave of thick, moist human heat rolls over me from the crowd. Pressed against the metal fence in the first row, chicks with the beauty of top models give me the eye, boobs popping out of sexy lingerie.

  I find a guitar pick taped to the mike stand and hit the lowest chord on my bass. A deep, distorted dzoing drowns all other sounds in the venue. Yeah, man, rock and roll! This is too fucking awesome. Almost better than getting laid.

  Almost.

  ****

  After the second and last encore, Jeff leaves his drumkit to join us mid-stage. Chests heaving, the four of us hold hands and bow to the audience while the screaming and whistling intensify. If the arena had a roof, the decibels these tens of thousands voices produce would lift it.

  Funny how the crowd looks as tired as us, sweaty and out of breath like having run a marathon, but they shout for more songs, don’t want to let us leave. Tomorrow, we’re raiding another city, another state.

  I clutch my buddies’ hands, adrenalin running through my veins. Laughing, I stare at the crowd. I don’t want to forget. I exchange glances with the beauties in the front row. Maybe they’ll wait for me outside the backstage area after the Meet and Greet.

  Timmi lets go of my hand, takes a step forward and grabs the microphone head from its stand. His long, curly blond hair dances on his back, and sweat glues the pink spandex pants to his ass. His hoarse voice echoes from all sides of the stadium. “Thank you, people! You’re amazing! We! Love! You!”

  With that, we all run to the side, leaving the instruments for the crew, and sneak behind the heavy curtain.

  I jog through the corridor deafened, exhausted, but happy. My left hand fingertips are sore from the hour and a half-long sliding on guitar chords. My right thumb and index tremble from holding a pick for so long.

  The backstage room is filling with people. Band members, roadies, management, and special guests such as family, media, and a few pre-selected fans. The place buzzes with chatting and chuckling, and I stop in the door to assess. Don’t see any eye-catching hotness yet.

  Sweat runs from my head, along my back, and down my abs. My soaked shirt glues to my skin, and I stink of hour-long transpiration. I need a shower, but there’s so much else I want to do first: get a drink, a smoke, and some pussy before the tour bus leaves. None of these are allowed on board. I’m electrical, high. I need to move, and my whole body thirsts to get higher.

  Next to a merchandise booth in a corner stands a table with plates of sandwiches and cut fruit, a selection of mineral water bottles, and alcoholic drinks.

  “Shawn! Shawn!” Strangers rush me with expectant smiles, probably wanting me to sign CD covers or something.

  But I’ve made up my mind. Ignoring them, I stride to the table, grab a can of cold beer and down it in one take. The icy beverage rushes through my throat and refreshes me. The sweaty hairs on my arms rise as if chilly air blew on them. I open another, gulp down the beer, and grab a third.

  “Hey, Shawn,” a female says behind me.

  I hate being interrupted, but I’ve heard that voice before. Beer in hand, I spin around.

  Oh, Samantha from the record company. I don’t know if that pleases or annoys me. She’s cute, though, with long brown tendrils at shoulder-length, and hazel eyes glowing with warm intelligence.

  The alcohol makes me a little tipsy; I can’t resist the want to tease her. I give her the can with a grin and proceed to take off my soaked shirt, as if it’s the most natural thing. Damp body heat and the sharp smell of sweat emanate as I lift my arms in the air, struggling to remove the wet fabric, groaning.

  Once done, I drop it to the floor and cross my arms, making my well-trained muscles protrude, and scrutinize her reaction. Offering a little male sexiness has worked on most females before.

  Flabbergasted is the best word to describe her face. I flash my teeth as her gaze runs over my torso. She can’t possibly be aware of her nostrils’ tiny movements, revealing her inhalation of my scent.

  I let a moment pass, then ask, pointing at the can in her hands, “You gonna have that beer?”

  “Oh.” She straightens with a deep breath, regains composure, looks at the brand logo on the can, and shakes her head. “No, I don’t drink alcohol at work.”

  I like her voice. It’s soft, comforting, reminds me of my mother’s. But when she hands me my drink, the wolf in me wants to play. I cover her hand and tug while taking a step closer, pulling her toward me. She wears a discreet perfume, the scent of prairie flowers, I think. Her cheeks blush as she lifts her chin to meet my eyes, and her pupils grow feverish. She’s holding her breath. With my other hand, I grab her round, firm butt and press her stomach against mine.

  All sounds around us vanish; the talking, the laughter. I focus on the girl in my arms. She’s not really my type, but knowing her infatuation, she’ll be an easy fuck. That’s all I need before getting on the bus. Tomorrow, it'll be someone else.

  I glance at the KISS patches on her chest. Gene Simmons once declared we’re all in this business for sex, and whoever says he does it for the music is lying. Besides, the girls beg
to be screwed senseless by celebrities, so they can brag to their friends. Shawn in Bloodless slept with me! Squee!

  Maybe she thinks I’m going to kiss her, but I’m not. Call me crazy, but there’s a little romantic in me saving that for a special girlfriend—if such a thing is in the cards for a guy like me. Instead, I move my hands to her denim jacket and start unbuttoning it from the top.

  “You seem to need a little help with that,” I joke.

  Damn, we’re so close, and her feminine heat makes my blood boil. I picture bringing her to a dark corner behind the stage curtain and having her hands on my cock. I suggestively push my hardness against her warm thighs.

  She frowns and takes a step back.

  No? What is it? My beer breath? I withdraw as well. Too fucking bad.

  Eyes shimmering, she opens her mouth, but I turn and grab a new can. I mean, who the hell do you think you are to turn me down like that?

  I gulp the whole drink, release a solid burp, and take what must be the fifth can before leaving. I make my way between groups, ignore their Hi, Shawn, can I ask you a question? and pretend not to recognize anyone. That’s what sucks about being famous; can’t go anywhere without someone calling my name.

  I head for the backstage door, past restrooms and offices, intending to find some willing company. And a cigarette. Where’s my jacket? Fuck, left it in the bus after rehearsal.

  Teddy’s holding the door for the crew members carrying gear out to the bus. Street lamps light a long row of fenced-in fans in front of the shiny double-decker.

  He glares. “Where do you think you’re going?” He looks like he wants to add some smart insult, but he knows his place. I’m the star. I bring in the money, the label pays him.

  “I need a smoke,” I grumble. That, and a nice piece of ass.