Not So Goode

by Jasinda Wilder

  The field was a giant open space, maybe a hundred acres of old fallow field, with all the parking way off in back along a tree line near the county trunk line. There was, fortunately, plenty of what mattered: trash cans, porta-potties, food, and water. There were also a scary number of giant-ass bonfires—like twenty-foot high bonfires—scattered in regular intervals. But each one was maintained and secured by a trio of what looked to be off-duty cops or ex-military dudes, so I doubted anyone would fall in and die. There were tents in clusters all along the tree lines to either side, and in my prowling of the festival grounds last night and this morning, I’d seen and heard fornication in plenty. I saw no police presence at all, and people were wandering around with open bottles of liquor and smoking joints—it was reminiscent of what I imagined the original Woodstock had been with a quarter of the crowd. Which, to me, meant this would actually be fun, instead of a miserable fuckin’ muddy mess. There were food trucks way in back near the makeshift parking lot, and wandering vendors charging an arm and a leg for sweating liter bottles of water, cans of beer, and mini bottles of booze.

  I mean, there was a shitload of laws being broken here, but somehow the organizers had managed to make sure those who may’ve cared were looking the other way.

  Women were dancing around topless, which I liked.

  The sound was loud as fuck, but shitty, which I didn’t like.

  Overall, a good fuckin’ time.

  We were slated to go on later tonight, as one of the main acts. The festival was broken up into three days—yesterday, day one, was the day featuring the sort of acts who opened for the up-and-comers, with a well-known but not A-list act as the day one headliner; day two was the big day, when the top-draw headliners performed hour sets, opener acts doing twenty minutes in between headliners, fifteen to thirty minute breaks between sets, and the biggest draws going on well past dark, when people would be blitzed and wild. Day three, the closing day, was a sort of taper-off, with more lesser-known artists going on to round things out as people packed up and went home.

  It was barely after noon on day two and things were just ramping up. I didn’t have jack shit to do until at least eight tonight, when we’d have to start moving our shit around in preparation for setup, and then Myles and the guys would go on around nine. I had plenty of time between now and then to just kick back, have a few beers, and enjoy the show.

  And by the show, I mean the crowd, which was liberally salted with pretty women wearing a whole lot of nothing from the waist up, and even one or two dressed in less, as if it was Burning Man or some shit. I didn’t mind. Eye candy, if nothing else.

  I drank slow, and not much—I reserved my real benders for when it mattered, and the rest of the time, I tended to just nurse a beer over a long, long time. More for the taste and the appearance than any real desire to chase a buzz. I’d had enough of the party life by this point of my life, honestly.

  But that was a different story.

  Hour after hour, I prowled the crowd. Watched the acts, taking note of the newcomers and sorting them into worthy of playing with Myles and not so much. Enjoyed the scenery—the bright sun and warm air, the birds wheeling and singing, the trees in the distance waving their green arms, the wide open sky above and, yes, the half-naked women shaking their tits, and I let myself play a game of sort-the-tits, wherein I mentally assessed and categorized boobs by size and shape.

  Not all the women were topless, though. Plenty were clearly just there to listen to country and get hammered in a big ol’ empty field. You didn’t have to drive anywhere, and there wasn’t much by way of security, and no one was paying attention to what you did as long as you weren’t bothering anyone. And the few times some drunk asshole tried to start shit, he was shut down by the rest of the nearby crowd, who just wanted to have some laid-back fun.

  Dusk was lowering, the blue sky turning orange. I was due backstage in about twenty, and was enjoying the last of my beer—my fourth or fifth since this morning, and I’d timed them pretty damn perfectly to set me up with a nice mellow buzz. The act on stage was decent—a local trio, two men and a woman clearly inspired by Lady A but without that trio’s insane talent quotient. They played a good foot-stomping set, though, and the crowd loved ‘em. It was getting plenty rowdy by now, with pockets of people dancing, others just watching. I saw the bonfire security switch shifts, the new guys fresh and alert and watchful—so, if anything did get out of hand, at least there was something like backup presence. People were plenty wild, though. Staggering around in groups and pairs and alone, laughing, hanging on each other, toasting with red Solo cups. I saw a guy and his girlfriend making out near the backstage sawhorses, and by making out, I mean he had his fingers up what passed for her skirt, and I had a feeling in another few minute they’d be in the grass just going at it, and whoa, yep, okay, there they went, right there, her on top, topless and bouncing her shit for everyone to see.

  I mean, damn, though. Good for them, but I couldn’t imagine ever being so far gone I’d do that in public. Maybe I was just a private sorta guy, but that was plain weird to me.

  I drew my attention back to the stage, and the rest of the crowd. Watching, assessing. I’d done security plenty of times, so old habits took over—a guy who looked like potential trouble, dancing loose and with eyes that said he was spoiling for a fight. But he had buddies around him who looked less like trouble, and I hoped they’d keep his ass in check, because I had no desire to ruin my buzz with having to throw down.

  A foursome of girls in very short, ripped jean shorts, cowboy boots, and flannel shirts tied up under big tits, dancing like no one was watching even though everyone with a dick within fifty feet was watching, especially when things started to not so accidentally pop out, now and then.

  A couple having a hell of a nasty argument as they headed for the porta-potties off to the sides, the woman stabbing her finger at him, and him stomping away trying to pretend he couldn’t’ hear her shrill shrewy-ass voice.

  And…oh shit.

  This wasn’t good.

  A group of dudes, rough lookin’ ones, clustered around someone, off in the shadows where the sawhorses and semitrailers met the porta-potties. Laughing, pushing. Nudging each other, leaning in and whispering. In a crowd, if you’re whispering, you’re up to no good.

  And if you’re around the worst of humanity like I’ve been my whole life, you learn to recognize a certain look, a certain kind of laugh. It’s a low ugly laugh, a harsh bark. It’s one that says you’re getting enjoyment out of someone else’s pain or fear.

  That was how these assholes were laughing.

  I heard a squeal, a cry, a shout. A feisty curse, and one of the guys staggered backward, holding his lip, and then lunged back in. I heard a smack.

  Oh fuck, no.

  I tossed my empty cup into a nearby trash can and jogged over.

  When I got within twenty feet, I knew I had been right. These wormfuck assholes were harassing some poor chick. They had her ringed in against the sawhorses and trailers, so she had nowhere to go. Pushing her around, grabbing her ass, pinching her tits, smacking her enough to knock her off-balance. She was hammered to shit, and scared, but not backing down. She’d slam up against the barricade, try to shake off the alcohol in a way that said she was likely seeing double, if not triple. Then she’d rush at the assholes, only to get grabbed, pinched, licked, smacked…all at once and from all sides.

  Her rage was something to behold. She was volcanic, and she was giving out as good as she could—kicking, biting, punching, and connecting, too.

  Trouble was, she was just plain outnumbered, out-sobered, and had no fuckin’ chance.

  And way over here, where no one was looking, ten-to-one they’d end up dragging her off into the woods…

  Fuck no.

  I keep a close rein on my temper, which ain’t pretty to begin with. It rumbles close to the surface on a good day and, even kept in check, it’s an ugly fuckin’ bitch of a thing. But a scene like th
is? I saw red.

  Closed the distance.

  Grabbed the nearest shithead, caught a fistful of the back of his shirt, yanked him backward, and smashed his fuckin’ face in, hammer fist. Kneed his gut so hard he started retching. Kicked his balls in, and that fucker would never procreate again.

  By that time the other five or six were on me.

  Lousy cockroaches didn’t stand a goddamn chance.

  I was stomping faces outside of biker bars by the time I was eight years old, and had black belts in four disciplines by thirteen, plus an education in brawling from the hardest motherfuckers in four states, the kind of men you whispered about and hoped like hell they didn’t look at you.

  These little pissant mealworm shits?

  They wouldn’t even bloody my knuckles.

  Block, arm-bar, knee, swing him into the other fella, kick a knee so it bent the wrong way, knife-hand to a throat and watch him gag on his own windpipe; break a forearm until I saw bits of ulna sticking through rends in the flesh. One of ‘em managed a glancing blow to my teeth, but it hurt him more than me, and I returned the favor with an open palm to the side of the face, knocking some teeth down his fuckhead throat.

  “I think you finished ‘em off there, buddy,” I heard a voice say. “You can stand down.”

  Five huge-ass security guys all in tactical black, each one with a bearing that said ex-military, and each with ice-cold eyes.

  The speaker was the biggest, and meanest looking—with eyes so venomous and frigid they gave even my dead-ass soul a shiver. “We saw what was going on, but you beat us to the save.”

  I blinked. Looked around—I’d left six bloody messes. “These shitstains need doctors,” I snarled.

  The guy glanced past me at the girl huddled on the ground, arms around her waist, fighting the urge to be sick while sobbing. “We got them, you get her.”

  I nodded, and turned away. Adrenaline was pulsing through me so hard my hands were shaking.

  She was gagging, and sobbing. I crouched off to one side, close but out of spew range, and out of scare-her-worse range.

  I kept my voice low, calm, like I’d talk to one of River Dog’s skittish old half-wild Appaloosas. “Hey, now, darlin’. You’re alright. Safe now, okay? Ain’t nobody gonna touch you.”

  She stared, tear-stained eyes the same wild blue of the Mediterranean fixing blearily on me—scared stupid, seeing too many of me, trying to figure out what was going on. “They—they—“

  “They ain’t gonna bother you no more.” I glanced over my shoulder, watched the security guys dragging the fuckers two at a time toward the woods. “Or anyone else, I suspect.”

  She saw that, frowned. “Where’re they takin’em?” Slurred to hell, but a faint Boston accent.

  “There’s a med tent on the other side of the woods.”

  She eyed me. “You—” A blink, focused on not upchucking. “You did that.”

  “You’re safe.”

  She shook her head. “Not safe.”

  “I got you. Won’t let nothin’ happen.”

  She closed her eyes, frowning. “God, I’m—I’m so…”

  “Hammered.”

  A nod. “Yeah,” she whispered.

  “Not your usual scene?” I guessed.

  She shook her head, which was a mistake. A long black braid snaked in an S-wave at her back—a complicated braid, and a whole hell of a lot of thick black hair. Those sea-blue eyes met mine again. Tear-stained, but drying. Firming up.

  “Don’t know where the hell I am.” She tried to move, to stand up, but tipped over.

  I caught her, and she was soft and light in my arms. “Why don’t you just relax, all right, darlin’?”

  Her eyes fluttered, unfocused, then she refocused on me, irritated through the inebriation. “Don’t…don’t call me darling.”

  I just laughed. “Whatever’s clever, babe.” I stood up with her long bare legs draped over one arm, and that thick black herringbone braid slung over her shoulder as she lolled her head against the crook of my elbow.

  “Where’reyoutakingme?” she mumbled, slurring so bad it was nearly incomprehensible.

  “Backstage.”

  She blinked her eyes open. “Lexie.” Tried to sit up. “Lexie!”

  I held her. “Whoa, now, darlin’, just relax. I got you. Let me get you somewhere you can sit and sober up, okay? You’re safe. I’ve got you. Nothin’ gonna happen to you when I’m around.”

  “Sister,” she whispered. Head lolled against my chest. “Lexie. Sister. Need Lexie.”

  She sniffed. Blinked. Realized her cheek was against skin; all I had on was my leather cut—my old, worn, AzTex MC vest adorned with the patch and other assorted pins and patches—unbuttoned over my bare chest, as it was a hot day and it was the way I felt most comfortable.

  “Big chest,” she murmured. “You’re hard and soft at th’same time. It’s weird.” She blinked up at me, and fuck, those eyes could smolder and burn like fire and ice, blue and blue and blue and searing, even drunk off her ass. “Hi.”

  I laughed. “Hi there, hot stuff. What’s your name?”

  Her head wobbled, lolled. “Charlie.” She bumped into my chest again, and she sniffed. “Soft skin. Feels nice. Smells nice. You smell clean. Are you clean?” Her hand wafted up, patted my chest. “You feel clean.” Blinked, peered cross-eyed, smoothing her hand over my pec. Which, I admit, is not small, or soft. “And muscly.”

  I couldn’t help a belly laugh. “You know how to flatter a fella, don’t you Charlie?” I was weaving through the bustle of offstage, between sound techs and stage crew and electricians and guitar techs and drum techs and security and singers and guitarists and drummer and groupies. “Got a last name, Charlie-darlin’?”

  “Goode.”

  “Good?” I repeated.

  “Goode. G-O-O-D…E. Good with an E. Like goodie, but don’t say goodie. Lexie would kick your ass, if she was seven again.”

  “Charlie Goode.”

  She smiled, and managed to make a drunk smile look sexy as hell. “Yep. That’s me, Charlie Goode, who hasn’t, I’m not…I’ve never been as this drunk before.”

  “That wasn’t even proper English, sweetheart.”

  “Derms of entearment...Terms of Dend-dearment…shit. TERMS of ENDEARMENT are non persona grata.”

  “I think you mean persona non grata.”

  “Shuh-up. Can you use Latin phrases this drunk? NO. You’re too sexy to know Latin.” She peered at me. “At least, you look sexy. I could have wicked bad beer goggles on, though. Too drunk to know for sure.” She sounded enticingly Boston, just then.

  “Say ‘park the car’ for me.”

  She blinked, made a face of extreme annoyance. “Two years in Boston and this is what I get.” She huffed, rolled her eyes. “Paaaahk the caaaah,” she drawled in a devastatingly cute Boston accent. “There. Happy?”

  “For now, yeah.”

  She rested her head against my chest. “Comfy. Sleepy time?”

  I laughed. God this chick was too fuckin’ adorable. Trusting, and adorable, and sexy, and way too innocent. “Not quite.”

  She peered at me. “I know your name, but you don’t know mine.” A blink. “Wait, other way. I don’t know your name, but you know mine.”

  “Are you askin’ my name, babe?” She gave me a sloppy nod, and I rumbled another laugh. “Crow. My name is Crow.”

  A blink, the pause I always get. “Crow?”

  “Yes. Crow.”

  “Wow. That’s super cool. Is that your whole name?”

  I keep my face blank. “Yeah.”

  “Crow. That’s it.”

  “Yup.”

  Despite her colossal drunkitude, she seemed to sense that this was not a line of conversation that was going to play. “Okay. Crow. It fits you. You look like a crow. I mean, you don’t look like a bird. You look like a yummy man. Who somehow just seems like someone who would be named Crow.”

  “Yummy, huh?” I carried her up a r
ickety set of stairs to the stage, around into the back of one of the trailers, which served as side-stage wings. Settled her in a ratty old overstuffed suede couch they’d set to one side. “Now, just sit there, okay? I’m going to get you some water. Do not fuckin’ move.”

  Her head wobbled unsteadily. “Yummy. Yuppers. You are yummy. I didn’t know men could be yummy till I saw you, and I just know I’m going to regret this whole conversation once I’m sober. Assuming I survive the hangover I’m sure I’m in for.” She patted the couch on either her side of the most mouth-watering pair of bell-curve hips I’d ever seen. “Not moving. Nope, nope, nope. I couldn’t move, if I wanted to. Legs are all bye-bye. Bye-bye legs. No more walking for you.” She patted her legs, encased in black yoga pants which highlighted every delicious curve. “I liked my legs. They were nice. Kinda fat, because I’ve put on weight since my asshole boyfriend-fiancé-dickhead decided to let me catch him cheating on me with my overweight middle-aged boss. But until then, I had pretty nice legs. Now they’re just…” She squeezed her thigh. “Blub. Blub.” Jiggled it. “Blub-blub-blub.”

  I grabbed her hand, pinioning her wrist. “Your legs are fuckin’ perfect, Charlie Goode.”

  She frowned up at me. “Perfect is a strong word. Nothing is perfect.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe not, but from where I’m lookin’, those sexy-ass legs of yours are about as perfect as legs can get.”

  She couldn’t quite stop a smile. “Well. It’s awful nice of you to make a drunk girl feel better. They’re kinda jiggly though.” She shook her thigh again. “See?”

  I restrained myself, with great effort, from palming her thighs and showing her how those legs were meant to be touched. Instead, I pinned both of her wrists in one hand. “You always this self-deprecating when you’re drunk?”

  She sighed. “Never been this drunk before, so I don’t know.” She peered up at me. “Wait. You said sexy-ass legs.”

  I laughed. “Yes, I did.”

  “Sexy ass legs, like sexy ass and legs, or sexy-ass legs, wherein sexy-ass is one word hyphenated?”

  I snorted. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes. It does. I have to know what you meant. So I can remember this moment.”