Rock Me Deep

by Nora Flite

  Colt and Porter joined us as the bus parked. It was early enough that I didn't expect many people to be crowding the venue. Eagerly I climbed from the bus, inhaling the fresh air.

  There were cars and tour buses all around; other bands and crew for the show tonight. Small carts owned by the Fillmore were parked in the lot, the scent of coffee and grease hitting me hard. Before I could follow after Porter and Colt to get something to eat, Brenda appeared to block us. “Hey! You're awake, good. I need to go over everything for tonight.”

  “After.” Brushing by her, I stalked towards a muffin that had my name on it. “I need some breakfast.” Her hand grabbed my shoulder. For a second, I thought about shoving her aside. Instead, my feet paused on the cement. One eye looked her way. “Can I eat and talk? I'm pretty talented.”

  Brenda jammed a paper bag in my face. “I took the liberty of grabbing you guys some donuts. Now, will you come with me?”

  The rest of my band—including Lola—crowded in, eager for the food. Colt snuffled and snorted, pretending to be an animal. “Tell me what you want from me," he said. "I'm all ears. And mouth. Fuck, just give me a donut, please.”

  Squeezing the bridge of my nose did little for my growing migraine. “Okay, okay. Lead on, Brenda.”

  She took us through a backdoor of the Fillmore. Traversing a tight hallway, she guided us into an area plastered with 'staff only' signs. There were people running all over, some with clipboards, others with headsets that they spoke into softly.

  The show wasn't until five, but everyone was getting prepared.

  Once we were in a quieter room Brenda put the bag on a table. Porter and Colt ripped it open immediately. “Have a seat, guys," she said. "I've got details to give out and I need you all to listen.”

  Reaching for a fat, glossy Boston cream, I settled into a swivel chair and kicked up my feet. The baked good was fucking delicious, sweet filling coating my tongue. I had it half finished before Lola picked up a simple glazed one for herself.

  We ate while Brenda covered the table in paperwork, finger jabbing as she spoke. “I've put you all up in the Ramada tonight. Here are your keycards, room info, the whole lot.” Passing out the hard chunks of plastic, she looked me in the eye. “We roll out tomorrow morning, the bus will stay here to keep the fans from mobbing the hotel. I'll send a car. If you need anything, just call.”

  The meaning in her voice wasn't lost on me. Glancing at Lola, I finished my donut. There won't be an encore of shitty security guards attacking her this time.

  Porter grabbed another pastry, crumbs spilling over his chin. “What time do we need to be back here?”

  “You're on at seven, so be here by four at the latest for sound check.” Her smile spread, fixing on Lola. “Here, take a look. These are being plastered all over the Fillmore website, as well as in our newsletter and every social media outlet we have our claws in.” She slid a thick folder across the table.

  Lola eyed it, uncertainty turning her pretty mouth into a knot. It only got worse when she opened the folder, revealing the glossy prints inside. “Oh, holy shit.”

  Holy shit indeed.

  The photos from yesterday were stunning. Lola was a vision, the blue of her eyes made even crisper by saturation. She was poised in front of the bus window, lashes lowered to create a canopy. Lola's smile contained too many secrets.

  I knew I'd need to taste her so I could start to understand.

  Shifting in my chair, I fought down the surge of arousal. I'd have to get a copy of those pictures.

  “Well,” Brenda prompted, “What do you think? Good, right?”

  Sliding her hand over the prints, Lola said, “These don't look anything like me.”

  Brenda rolled her eyes, pulling the folder back. “Sure they do! They're just doctored up some. That's normal, everyone does it.”

  Doubtful, Lola poked at the other half of her donut. “If you say so.”

  The rest of the meeting was a blur, I was too busy staring at the girl I was so addicted to. Letting Brenda ramble, I tuned out for the first time in my years of singing professionally. Normally, I was keen on these meetings. They kept problems from happening.

  I hated problems.

  Now, I was twitching one boot over my opposite crossed ankle. Each movement matched my heart, thumping to a tune—a song—that had been forming for two days now. Lola was a single lyric. I wanted to say her name over and over until I owned her like I did all of my music.

  When Brenda waved at us to leave, I shrugged out of my daze like it was a heavy jacket I could shed. Our group started to head for the exit. Lola was dragging her feet, lost in thought.

  She's getting overwhelmed. Those photos really bothered her.

  Wishing I could erase her gloom, an idea hit me. My fingers snapped out, curling firmly around her wrist. “I want to show you something.”

  Under my touch, her goosebumps prickled. She froze on the spot. “What?”

  Porter and Colt turned back, expecting us to be following. I gave them a tiny nod. “Go on ahead. I want to give Lola a look inside.”

  Understanding spread between them. “Sure,” Porter said. “We'll meet you at the hotel.”

  Free of their stares, I tugged Lola further into the hall. She came reluctantly, tension in her steps. “A look inside? But why?”

  Because I want to see you smile. Of course, I said no such thing. Setting my jaw, I led her deeper into the Fillmore. The halls were tunnels, we were explorers, and I knew where the treasure was.

  Together, we broke out into the main room of the building. I'd seen the stage before; when I was a child, my dad had slipped us into the upper levels to view the band from above.

  This time, I gazed around a wide room full of people organizing wires and lights. The vast size of the space was enhanced with all of the empty seats. Next to me, Lola gasped. The sound danced right to my center.

  I still held her wrist, and for a heartbeat, I almost linked our fingers. Releasing her, I gestured with my head. “How's it look?”

  Her answer was pure, her lips showing off her perfect teeth. “Beautiful.”

  No. It's your smile that's beautiful, I thought.

  She whispered, “I'm actually standing here.” She felt the moment in its entirety; how heavy it was, like a piece of fruit ready to fall to the earth and explode. “I'll be playing music in front of thousands of people tonight.”

  Peering at her hip, I watched her hands clench. “Does that scare you?” I asked.

  Lola met my gaze with one of her own. The severity boiling deep inside of her eyes halted my breathing. “Of course it does. Aren't you scared?”

  Thinking to myself, I considered my reply. I was only scared of one thing lately, but it wasn't something I was ready to admit to her.

  Not yet.

  “When I first played on a big stage,” I said slowly, “I was extremely afraid. That's normal.”

  “I'm sorry, did you just try to call yourself normal?" The smile she wore was made from innocence and mystery. It took a concentrated effort not to curl my fingers into her thick hair, right there in front of the massive stage we'd soon perform on.

  Perform.

  This fucking girl made me want to create an entirely new meaning for that word. It would be glorious to bend her over and witness what we could do together. Lola's nearness made it a chore to stop thinking about wet sex.

  Breaking the gravity between us, she looked at the large lights overhead. “It'll be packed in here, won't it?”

  My fingers hooked into my pockets. “The concert sold out the day it was announced.”

  “I wonder if Sean will watch me?” She spoke wistfully, like her question didn't need an answer.

  I'd love to watch you from the crowd, too. “Barbed Fire is opening tonight. He should be able to see you from backstage if he hangs around.” The thought was a squirming maggot in my belly. Though Lola and Brenda had done their best to convince me that Sean Cooper held no resentment for me, I didn't wan
t to see him up close.

  The guy was as unwelcome in my presence as Johnny would be.

  Rubber scuffed on wood; the toe of her converse sneaker digging into the floor. “Lot of pressure on me tonight. He'll be watching to make sure I don't make a mistake.”

  Crinkling my nose, I tilted my head. “If it'd help, I can make sure he isn't backstage.”

  Cold distress filled her voice. “No no! I want him there. I just meant, you know, it's a big deal. Performing tonight is... fuck.” She clasped the side of her throat. “It means everything to me.”

  My chest ached with a yearning to pull her against me. Not so long ago, I'd have said the same thing she just had. Lola's existence, the way she'd come crashing into my life, had changed things. The music doesn't mean everything to me. She does, now.

  I wanted to take her away and hide her from the world. I didn't want the crowd to see her like I did; talented, astounding... perfect.

  Had I always been so greedy?

  “Can I ask you something?” At my quick nod, she pushed on. “Did any of your family come to your first show?”

  I hadn't expected that question. “My mother did,” I said softly. “She came to all of them for a while.” And if that bastard hadn't hurt her, maybe she could still—no. I had no intention of cutting my heart open here. Being vulnerable had its time and place. “Are you asking because you want to have your parents here? I'm sure Brenda could find a way to fly them out by tonight, if we tell her right now.”

  Lola was shaking her head before I'd finished. “Don't worry about it. They wouldn't want—” Closing her mouth, she stopped herself.

  “What?” Hunching closer brought us to eye level. “They wouldn't want to what?”

  Her eyes became frosted glass. “They wouldn't want to fly. They hate airplanes, that's all. Can we go to the hotel? I'd like to clean up.”

  The change of subject wasn't lost on me. Lola was hiding something. “Sure. Follow me.” Straightening, I led her back down the hall. It was a silent walk; heavy dread hung off of Lola like thick lace. What's wrong with her?

  My plan had been to cheer the girl up by showing her the stage.

  Now, glancing at her as we broke into the early daylight, I had the feeling I'd lifted her up just to drag her back down.

  I just wished I knew what I'd done.

  ****

  We rode in a simple black car, tinted windows hiding us from the world. I'd even slid on a pair of shades to help protect my identity. It was a fast trip, the Ramada was right up the street.

  Lola said nothing as we drove, her hands wrapped on her guitar case and bag. Each tap of her nail on the solid wood sent ripples up my neck. She's miserable, and I just want to nibble her pouting lower lip. Wiping my mouth didn't remove the thought.

  Our car slowed in front of the hotel entrance. Sensing a chance to escape the claustrophobic depressing bubble, I kicked my door open—the driver slammed his brakes. Lola jerked against her seat belt, eyeing me like I'd lost my mind.

  Grinning, I said, “Come on, let's see how expensive our rooms are.”

  Her tiny smile was encouraging. “I don't remember the last time I even slept in a hotel.”

  “You traveled with your brother,” I said, reaching my hand out to help her from the car. “Where did you sleep when you were on the road?”

  Her laugh was sharp and short. “Bus seats are comfortable enough in a pinch.”

  I started to chuckle—the sensation of her fingers wrapping in mine stopped me. A river of energy flowed from her hot skin into mine. I'd meant to steady her next to the car, but instead, we both stumbled.

  Lola's face came close to mine; I could see the tiny diamonds in her blue irises, fragments that broke up the rich color. My lips were magnetized to hers, and it was only thanks to the driver coming around, trying to yank my bag and be 'helpful' that I was stopped from tasting her.

  "Here you go," the guy said, beaming up at me.

  My fierce glare made him drop my bag; I caught it before it hit the pavement. "Thanks," I mumbled, "But I can take it from here."

  Lola exhaled, it came out in a great whistle that she had no control over. Her cheeks were glowing. When she spun to face the hotel, I suspected she was trying to hide her reaction from me. "This place is gigantic," she said.

  Her comment made me scan the building again. I'd grown so used to staying in a hotel that they all blurred together now. Unlike Lola, I'd never had to crash on a bus seat. When I'd started Four and a Half Headstones, we'd gone from driving our cars to local shows, to getting picked up by an agent in a mere few months.

  Realizing how blessed I'd been was a cold eye opener.

  I would never call myself entitled, but what would I do if Brenda ever suggested we sleep on a hard bus seat? And Lola's been doing that for... I don't even know how long.

  Strolling up to the front desk of the Ramada, I fought with a drilling sensation of guilt. This honest woman had, unintentionally, made me reevaluate my privilege. I was torn between appreciating that... and hating it.

  Lola stood beside me, her head level with my shoulder. From the tip of her nose to the curve of her mouth, she was beautiful. Like she felt me weighing her worth, Lola peeked upwards.

  Those fucking eyes reassured me of one thing: A similarity existed between us. The ancient pain boiling in her eyes reflected my own. I didn't need details to recognize her scars—but I still wanted them. I needed to understand Lola Cooper.

  “Can I help you?”

  Turning, I smiled at the woman behind the counter. She was cute, though exhaustion and a too-tight hair bun were doing her no favors. Digging out my keycard, I flashed it like it was money. “You can, in fact, help us. We have rooms here. I'm—”

  “Drezden Halifax,” she blurted, fingers covering her mouth. I smirked at her struggling to find the line between being a fan and acting professional. “Right! Your room is on the seventh floor. If you have your card, you can go right up.” Gesturing at the elevator, her cheeks went pink. It was endearing, but Lola's blush was far more enticing. “Um, do you need help with your luggage? I can—I mean, someone can—”

  Waving my hand, I gripped my bag. “Thanks, but I think we can handle these.” Facing my companion, a wave of surprise careened along my spine. Lola's elegant fingers were crushing the handle of her guitar case, turning them the color of ivory. Every line in her forehead told me a story.

  Jealousy.

  Lola was jealous.

  That fact pleased me so much, I could have hugged her right there. I'd sensed it the other night when we were at the Griffin, too; how she'd fidgeted over my flirting with the waitress, a girl whose name I'd already forgotten.

  Standing tall, I slathered my best smile onto the girl behind the front desk. Her hazel eyes were glazed over. “Actually,"I said, "I could use help with something.” I squinted at her name tag. “Amy. If it isn't too much?”

  “Of course not!” Beaming wide, she smoothed her already too-smooth scalp. “Just ask! I'd love to be of assistance.”

  I pointed at Lola's bag. “Could you carry up her luggage?” Amy's eyes followed my finger, excitement deflating. “She's tired from practicing all night on the bus. We've got a big show tonight, so I'd like to have her as rested as possible.”

  Her uncertainty melded into disbelief, then it became recognition. In an act of blunt unprofessionalism, Amy whipped her phone out took a photo of Lola. “Oh my gosh! She's the new guitarist, isn't she?” Amy stared from Lola, to me, then back again. “You're Lola Cooper, the one replacing Johnny Muse! I'm so sorry—I should have noticed!”

  Now Lola squirmed, shuffling her feet at the attention. “Oh, uh, it's fine. Don't worry about—”

  “I saw all the photos last night,” Amy rambled, the flash on her phone blinding us a second time. “Everyone was talking about it, it was all over twitter and everything! I can't believe I'm meeting you before you play for the first time!” Her eyes bugged from her skull. “Can I get your autograph?�
��

  It was hard not to laugh. Lola was gawking at me, mentally begging me for help. If you lose it here, you'll faint tonight, I thought in amusement. If I don't step in, she'll have a heart attack. But before I could explain that Lola couldn't sign anything without permission from our manager, the guitarist blurted out, “Sure, what would you like me to sign?”

  “Here,” Amy gushed, handing over a pamphlet about the Fillmore. “Just sign this, it's that or an information packet for this hotel.”

  My scheme to save Lola from embarrassment at the hands of a hotel receptionist crumbled under their mutual giggles. With a messy, unpracticed hand, Lola signed the paper. Amy held it high triumphantly. “This is so great!” Grinning at me, she offered it my way along with the pen. “Um, could you sign it too?”

  Bending over the pamphlet, I studied Lola's name. It looked like swirling flowers on a breeze. Is this her first signature ever? It was certainly the first as a member of my band. Amy had a piece of gold here—I was about to make it even shinier.

  Taking the pen, I signed my name with my usual sharp angles. The letters twisted near each other, not quite touching. It was fitting, when I thought about it.

  Kissing the back of the paper, Amy did a full body shiver. “Oh my gosh. Thank you! Okay, let me get that bag up to your room.”

  Reaching down, I pulled Lola's luggage from her unprepared fingers. “Actually, on second thought, I've got it. Thanks, though.”

  “Oh.” Blinking, Amy tugged anxiously at the hem of her blouse. “Okay. Alright. Um, call down if you need anything. Anything at all, okay?”

  My nod was faint. Hoisting everything with a soft grunt, I hurried towards the elevator. Lola said something softly to Amy, her sneakers clomping as she caught up to me. Ducking through, she set her guitar case on the floor while the doors closed behind us.

  In the tiny box, mirrors flashing our images all around, she spoke over the repetitive elevator music. “Are you alright? You hurried out of there really quick.”

  With my hands tied up in the bags, I could only shrug. “It's nothing, just thought you might want to get to your room and chill out before tonight.”