Rock Me Deep

by Nora Flite

  The camaraderie was welcome, and I was grateful for Porter. Gripping his hand, I put on my biggest smile, but it didn't come close to his. "I think I like the sound of that."

  "Great," he said, clapping his palms. "Because Colt sure won't."

  - Chapter Nine -

  Drezden

  By the time the bus rolled out, we were all awake and in the practice room. Lola had tuned her guitar, then at Porter's suggestion, strummed with the amp turned up until Colt stormed in clutching his skull. It was what they needed; a moment that broke the tension.

  I wished it worked for me.

  My night had been plagued with visions of Lola. Her pouting lips, the curve of her neck, the way her dark hair fell wildly over her shoulders. Even her smell had been in my dreams. When I awoke, it was clinging in my very pores.

  Then it faded, and I'd actually longed for it.

  Seeing her that morning had soothed me briefly. Wrapped up in my fight with Brenda had made dealing with Lola's appearance easier, if only because I'd been forced to behave myself.

  I didn't think I was dangerous. But now, with a horny beast coming to life inside of me, I had to wonder. If I was left alone with Lola, no one around to judge me or stop me... what would I do to her?

  The thought of her mewling mouth sent my blood careened through me chaotically.

  I was chaotic.

  Fuck.

  Leaning on the wall, I wrapped the wire from my mic around my fingers. I pretended it was her hair; my tugging became firmer.

  “Yo,” Colt said, downing another palm full of pain meds for his headache. “We doing this or what? Pick a fucking song, maestro.”

  In a burst of speed, I stepped into the dead center of the room. I was positive I saw Lola flinch, leaning away from me on her bench. Everything she did made my damn cock twinge with desire. How could one girl drive me so insane?

  “Let's play Velvet Lost,” I grunted, acid coating my words. Hiding my hunger for Lola was so fucking hard. The only way to even try was to embrace my voracious anger.

  “Fine, whatever,” Colt grumbled. His mood was bleak, but he only had himself to blame. He never should have gotten so drunk. But unlike Johnny, I'd never known Colt to let me down. When he started drumming, my confidence in him remained solid.

  Together we began our mixture of sounds. Porter let the bass punctuate, making Lola's sweet licks of strings sound so clean.

  Chugging from my water, I dropped the empty bottle aside. It fell, forgotten. “Sticky sweetness, burning fast. My love, my dear, this will be your last...” I whispered into the mic, letting the lyrics flow from my guts. Every song I ever wrote had a meaning. It was something the band had fought with me over.

  I would tell them a lyric couldn't be changed. I'd fold my arms and stand my ground at Brenda's laments. It was my music, my fucking heart and core and blood.

  No one was allowed to change it.

  Looking straight at Lola, I gauged her playing. She wasn't struggling like yesterday. That was good. We didn't have the luxury of time for her mistakes. Softly I sang, “If I take you from the grave, you'll be mine... you'll be mine.”

  Her eyes glimmered, sticking to me, then my lips. I spread them; a kiss across the room.

  A promise I would taste her as soon as I found a way.

  “Lost in time,” I hissed, all rocks and leather. “Your end is mine. My love will be your last.”

  Just like that, Lola missed her mark. Dead air, a wrong note, she was stammering as much as if she'd forgotten her words during a public speech. To give her credit, she recovered and kept going. The knots in her neck and shoulders were pronounced.

  Yesterday, when she'd kept making mistakes, I'd been attacked by disgust. Staring at her red skin, the sweaty sheen on her throat... I knew what was happening.

  I finally understood.

  When I sing at her, and she feels it, she can't control herself.

  It was me that kept fucking her up.

  Me.

  The realization was awful and astounding all at once. What fucking power I had over her. I could make her so weak that she'd forget every bit of talent she had. She'd become as flawed as someone who'd never touched a guitar before.

  I could break Lola.

  That shouldn't have excited me so much.

  Everyone was still playing. I'd always demanded perfection and hard work. Inside of me, a tempting wall of sin was tearing me in two. Lola needed to perform up to par. The band relied on her doing her best.

  But the idea of seeing her crumbling because of me, to have that direct of a connection into her mind and body...

  Fuck, it made me shiver.

  When I sang my lines, my mouth was salivating. “Velvet lost on the skin of your bones, velvet rugs that lead to just stones.” With every fiber of intensity, I channeled the heat from my core to my voice. My jeans were tight from my excitement. I needed Lola's reactions. I needed them so bad it made my molars throb. “Sweet love, last love, you'll burn for me...”

  There; the twang of failure. Her misstep sang at my heart, soared through me like a bird with a promise. No one saw it, but I trembled with need.

  Was I so fucked up that I'd find such joy in touching her the only way I could?

  Caressing her with my song until she shattered?

  I am that sick, yes. I really am. Clutching the mic, I let the music fade on the unfinished song. Watching Lola, my forehead was smooth. Everything inside of me, the hidden pieces, were slithering in my dark lust.

  Calmly I said, “This is why I told Brenda we needed all the time we had.” Why I need every damn second with you I can get, Lola Cooper.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, fingers running nervously through her hair. Over and over she toyed with the long strands. It did little to subdue their waves. “Can we try again?”

  My eyebrows made a tight fist. “You sure it won't be wasting everyone's time?”

  “Drezden!” Porter snapped. “Fuck, man. Just chill out, you know she can do it.”

  “I don't know shit.” That's a lie. She can do it when I'm not trying to sing right into her cells. I'm making her fumble intentionally. Fuck fuck fuck, I'm so hard over this. Ducking down, I grabbed a new water bottle, secretly adjusting my erection. “Again, let's go again.”

  I could keep doing this forever.

  Any question about my promise last night fled. I'd told myself I'd make Lola mine, that I'd do whatever it took to claim her. If I had to start with her skill, with controlling how she performed, then I would. I was a monster.

  And I didn't care.

  The next song was Black Grit. Lola knew this one well. She held up smoothly as I sang. Once, she even managed to look me in the eye without dropping a note.

  She had no idea I'd figured her out.

  I wished I could see into her head.

  Swelling with energy, I belted out the wild chorus to the song. It could bring the house down on stage, I'd sung it for crowds so big you'd get lost for days. Now I aimed that surge at one single girl. Lola had no chance.

  If it weren't for the strap around her neck, she would have dropped her guitar entirely.

  The rest of the band voiced their frustration. Inside, I cheered with rapture.

  “Shit,” Colt sighed. Holding a water bottle to his forehead, he squinted across at me. “Look, at this rate, I've got to say... maybe we shouldn't have kicked Johnny out.”

  My stomach coiled like a cobra. A twinge of pain slid through my neck; I'd twisted that fast to look from my drummer, to Lola. Holy shit, what am I doing?

  The clarity was colder than the deep ocean; I was sabotaging my own band. But I need her, and this is the only way I can reach inside of her in a way no one else has a right to, or could even dream to.

  But was it worth it?

  Warring with the rancid chunk of me that wanted to affect Lola, I gazed at Porter and Colt. These two had stood by me for years. They knew me at my best and at my worst. Well, not entirely my worst.

&n
bsp; It was Lola that was learning what that really meant.

  If I keep this up, we all lose. Observing the dark haired girl, I licked my lower lip. I knew what I had to do. “I made the right choice. She can do it.” Lola sat up, gawking at my compliment. “One more time. Play it again.”

  That round, I reined myself in. I didn't try to make her flounder. It took everything in me to control my need to brush that part of her brain... but I did it. With the last of the chords capering around the room, I looked over my band.

  Their relief, their excitement, was contagious.

  “See?” I said, gracing Lola with a subtle smile. “I knew she could do it.”

  I need her to be able to do it.

  And I need to affect her.

  Fuck, how could I have both?

  Rolling his eyes, Porter plucked his bass. “Yeah yeah, you're clairvoyant. Let's do another one.”

  As a solid unit, we played. Four and a Half Headstones came alive. My ears rang with our sound, telling me we were as good now as we'd been at our peak; before Johnny had started dipping into his fuck-up habits.

  He'd never been as good as he'd been the day he auditioned, the same day we'd told Sean Cooper no. Lola's brother. I wonder what they talked about this morning. Had she said anything about me to him? Had the guy even asked?

  It wasn't my business, yet at the same time, anything that had to do with Lola tugged at my curiosity; my need for her. Even now, just a few feet away, I wanted her. My skin boiled with my starvation, tongue tasting like delirium.

  I actually almost missed a lyric. No one noticed, just me.

  That was plenty.

  Winding down an hour into practice, I kicked the pile of plastic bottles around the floor. Lola was sweating, the front of her shirt stained. The dark patch drew my eye to her heaving breasts.

  Leaning on the bench, head tilted to the ceiling, her throat bobbed. The way she panted summoned filth from the base of my skull. Instantly, I recalled how she'd looked beneath me in the tub. Her parted lips, wide-eyes and hazy scent.

  I'd heard her heart, her very blood, and still pressed harder against her.

  Ruffling my hair, I fought down a wave of static-charged lust. I didn't have to work hard to sober myself, though, because Brenda pushed through the curtain. She looked at all of us but focused on Lola. “Good, perfect timing.”

  “What's perfect timing?” I asked.

  Lifting her brown eyes, my manager brushed past me. She still wore her ridiculously tall heels, the sharp bottoms tearing at the floor. “Come on, Lola, we're pulling the bus over for a minute.”

  The guitarist lifted her eyebrows. “What? Why?”

  “Our photographer is up ahead, he's with his crew in the parking lot of a furniture store.” Gripping her curved hips, Brenda tapped her toe. “Come on, be quick!”

  Lola's sapphire eyes jumped to me. That expression was pleading. Is she asking my permission to leave? “Go, make it fast,” I grumbled.

  Brenda fluffed her hair. “Relax. We're doing it right on the bus. They just need to clean her up first, then they'll take some shots as we drive. Easy.”

  Saying nothing, I folded my arms and watched them leave the room. When their footsteps faded, Porter gave a sharp cough. “So. First time we've all been alone together since Lola joined.”

  “Yup.” Colt rubbed his chin with a stick.

  They were waiting for me to talk. I could see it in their eyes. Setting the mic on the stand, I dropped onto a bench. “Say whatever you need to.”

  Poking at his bass, Porter watched the floor like it had words there to read. “She's good. I think she's gotten a handle on her nerves.”

  Nerves. My lips twisted. Nerves wasn't the right word, but they didn't need to know that. I was entirely convinced that Lola was caught up in me. Her awkward moments were crafted from her blooming arousal.

  “Forget about that,” Colt mumbled. “What's this photo shoot thing all about? Did I miss something, do we all need new head shots or some shit?”

  Leaning forward, I gripped my knees. “Brenda says Lola needs some photos. Stuff for social media, that sort of junk.”

  The two men nodded, happy to accept that answer. It was close enough to the full truth to be believable. “In that case,” the bassist yawned, “I'm going to grab some coffee. Pretty sure we got some instant stuff left in the cupboard, but we're running low. Papa needs his java.”

  “I'll remind Brenda we need supplies.” My legs creaked when I stood. I was young, but lately, my stress and lack of sleep made me feel ancient.

  Porter and I wandered towards the front of the bus. I don't know what I expected to see out there. Maybe a camera guy or someone doing Lola's makeup. Instead, a tall umbrella-light was parked in the aisle, blocking most of the path.

  Porter paced in front of it, his hands held high. “Hey, come on, let me through!”

  “One second,” Brenda snapped. She appeared beside me, dragging Lola by the arm out of the bathroom. Irritation had started to swim in my veins...

  And then I saw her.

  Someone, no doubt Brenda, had forced the guitarist out of her ratty pants and fitted top. In black jeans that revealed chunks of her skin all the way up the backs of her thighs, Lola was a sexual vision.

  A white and black spaghetti top, the back shredded to display her shoulder blades, and knee high vinyl boots completed her ensemble.

  It wasn't the Lola I knew, but I could see myself liking this version just fine.

  Her cheeks were on fire. Blue eyes sparkled, casting my way in another silent cry for help. She hates this already, I realized. Brenda guided her past us, our bodies brushing in the tight aisle. The sweet scent of Lola sank into my lungs.

  Porter made room for the girls, then scowled as the umbrella light was pushed back into his face. “Hey! Come on, I don't want to break this, but I need some fucking coffee.”

  “Chill,” Brenda said, grabbing a carton off of a table. Steaming, bitter smelling liquid was poured into a tall cup which she hastily thrust at Porter. Someone from the photo team had brought us fresh coffee.

  Lola was handed over to the group. Two woman and one man quickly surrounded her like hungry wolves.

  I could hardly see the girl. Anxiety jumped through me like grasshoppers on cocaine. It shouldn't have been so uncomfortable for me, she was just getting her makeup done. You know it's more than that. She's going to be showing herself to the world now.

  I shook my head vigorously. Lola was going to be on stage tomorrow anyway. Hadn't I realized what that meant?

  I didn't fucking think about it until now. Gripping the seat next to me, I listened to the group titter around Lola like little birds. She's going to be famous like the rest of us. That means fans, stalkers, obsessive people who will try to take pictures of her—with her.

  Lola was going to become a star.

  I wanted her to be mine, but she would belong to the world before that would happen.

  Porter moved beside me, sipping his coffee. “They never put as much effort into my makeup for these shoots.”

  My mood was too black for his humor. “She's going to look like a different person.”

  “No more than the rest of us,” he snorted.

  But Porter was wrong. Eventually the group cleared, another umbrella-light added into the aisle. Lola was a queen, her black hair winding down her shoulders in lazy, smooth curls of liquid-looking smoke. They'd turned her eyes into lands of coal, lashes so heavy I was amazed she could blink.

  And her fucking lips... they'd made them plumper, shiny and crimson. It was a frown made of rubies begging to be kissed. Lola looked absolutely miserable.

  My bassist whistled, low and private for us. Jerking my glare at him, I witnessed the stare of appreciation on his face. He was seeing Lola in a way he never had. It was a sliver compared to what I saw in her from the start. “Wow, she's kind of hot, isn't she?" he said. "Damn.”

  Biting my tongue, I went back to watching the girl I hungered
for. They were coaxing her into posing. Stiff as wood, Lola let them adjust her until she was draped in a seat. Cameras flashed, blinding her pretty blue eyes.

  Though I didn't enjoy seeing her so uneasy at the hands of the photographers, I had to admit, she looked stunning. My jeans were crying out, begging me to give my cock more room. Scratching at my skull did little to chase the degenerate thoughts away.

  Someone shoved Lola's guitar at her. She took it happily, transforming before my eyes. The instrument was a lifeline. It completed the picture, made her whole. Lola was lost without her music; it hurt me how similar we were.

  Now the photos would make sense. They'd show a girl who was a masterpiece of talent, not a half-finished plastic replica.

  My heart throbbed in empathy.

  The shoot was over as fast as Brenda had promised. We'd driven a few miles with the van for the photographers following us. Tires squeaked, stopping the bus so the group could clamber off. They were efficient. I appreciated that.

  “So!” Brenda whirled to face me, not stumbling on her spread feet when the bus took off violently again. “That went well, didn't it?”

  “It went fast,” I said. Eyeing Lola, I noticed she wasn't looking at me. “You ready for a break?”

  Peeking upwards through her rain-gutter of lashes, she hesitated. “Do we have time for that?”

  She's worried about the show. I was, too, but no longer for the same reasons. Lola was ready to play. As long as I held back from aiming my carnal need-to-fuck-her-raw-energy right at her, she wouldn't mess up.

  She'd be amazing. Everyone would know her, and they would love her.

  I was fucking terrified.

  “We've got time," I said. "You won't do us any good if you pass out from hunger.” I glanced at Brenda. “We need more supplies. There's literally nothing here but alcohol.”

  “I know, I know.” Messing with her hair, she pouted. “Think you guys can handle pizza today? I promise after the show tomorrow I'll pack this place full of goodies for the next hike.”

  Porter stole more coffee from the box on the table. “I can eat more pizza if you promise to add some fruit to the next stock up.” Noting Brenda's squint, he bobbed his shoulders. “We can't live on sugar and fat alone. You want this band to make it another few years?”