by Lisa Gillis
Things That Sting
SENDER: Tristan
SUBJECT Hi
I went online today and dropped my classes. I promise I didn’t leave because of college. I’ll pay you back one day. The part of the money they won’t refund. Love Tristan Jack
When can we eat? Sladen is always the first to ask. Mark and Sash ignore that announcement as usual. I’m driving the van, and I’m starving, but I never pull over until Sash gives the okay.
I’ve learned no one does anything without Sash saying so. Maybe that’s why there’s never an argument. Because we’ve fallen into this routine where Sash has the final say on everything.
Night’s coming on and the weather is chilly. It’s still hot in Dallas. I know from experience—and my web browser is still set to my previous locale. But here, on the Canadian border, once the sun disappears, a chill settles.
Keeping an eye on the road, I reach out, adjusting the heater. Mark is smoking again—an off and on habit I’ve seen in the month I’ve known him. I know the van’s heat is escaping through his cracked window, but I say nothing, and shortly, he closes it.
“I guess we could hit a drive-through. Next town, Trey?”
I love the way Sash says my name. I’ve learned to crave the smooth way it rolls from her lips. I nod to acknowledge I heard, too engrossed in the song currently playing through the van’s old speakers to want to converse.
As often happens, the lyrics begin to change up in my head, and the key moves to a different cord. A guitar riff changes. A drum beat kicks in, and suddenly, I’m hearing an entirely new song.
I’ll lose it if I don’t get it down. But there’s no way I’m going to sing into my phone’s recording app with everyone around me.
“Right there!” Mark must be equally hungry, because he jabs an arm from the back to point between the seats and out the windshield.
There in the dusk, twin yellow arches glow. Twisting on the blinker, I ease onto the exit ramp.
We order and find a table. With a mountain of wrapped food occupying a tray on the table between us, we tuck in to eat.
Sash and Mark sit across from Sladen and me. It’s pretty much the usual seating arrangement.
Back when I was first getting to know them, that particular dynamic of the group caught my attention fast. But as far as I can see, there’s nothing past or present between Sash and either of the guys.
Once after a few beers, I’d become brave enough to ask about the easy closeness of her and Mark, and she’d vehemently shaken her head in denial. Had even laughed. “Do you think I’d be up to all hours of the night talking to guys on the internet if I was in a relationship?”
And that night, looking into her eyes, I’d known she wouldn’t. I’d seen that Sash is loyal. She values trust and fidelity.
Mark slurps his drink, and Sash and Sladen loudly reprimand him, bringing me back to our table and away from my thoughts.
“What happens after the show?” I wonder aloud. This is my first road gig with Splynter. I wonder if they all sleep in the van, or if they spring for a motel as they did after the festival.
“The magic of a chubby blue bird.” Sash beams a mysterious smile while chomping on a fry.
“Twitter?” It was the only fat blue bird that came to mind.
“Watch her work.” Sladen speaks around the burger he’s engulfing. “Go ahead, Sash. Show him how it’s done.”
“I’m eating.” She backs up that statement with a giant bite of her own burger.
But Sash, whether she knows it or not yet, is a born entertainer. Unable to resist this invitation to show off, she raises her hip enough to extract her cell phone from the pocket of her jeans.
Completely confused, I continue eating as she taps at the device. A few blips sound as she bumps the volume. An entire minute passes. A beep sounds and then two more. Several more.
Pushing the phone across the tabletop my way, she continues to eat.
Having wiped out my first burger, I wad the paper and unwrap my second before picking up the glittery girl phone.
Hey rockers of Toledo! Looking to crash after the show.
Can anyone help?
So far, there are fifteen return replies, and her phone is still blowing up.
“Two spare rooms.” She tilts the phone and reads aloud.
“We have a winner so far.” Sladen nods in approval.
“Is this safe?” Apprehension seizes me as I realize they’re trolling Twitter for a place to sleep tonight.
“We always do it on away gigs.” Sladen crunches down on a fry.
“Don’t be a girl, Duplei.” Mark shakes the ice against the sides of his cup.
“Hey!” Sash protests the slur to her gender.
I know Mark is joking around with the name calling, but it calls for a glare, and I send him one while quietly devouring the rest of my burger.
We play to a full house. I consider that performing may be hereditary. The moves, the persona, the need to soak in the energy of the audience arise naturally. As if I’ve been doing this since birth.
Sweat pours into my eyes. I need a headband like the one Sladen wears.
Sash is as wild and confident in front of her audience as she is in the upstairs room.
She has all the charisma of a frontman, without the attitude. This continues to awe me.
Because of who my parents and grandparents are, I’ve had the inside scoop and been privy to the inside story of many bands. The dynamic of Splynter is very different from most.
True, Sash controls our every move. But she does it in an unassuming way.
I’m lifting the last heavy amp and Mark grabs the other side to help load it. Sladen is inside the van changing clothes.
Sash is speaking on her phone. Throwing back her head, she laughs. Taking a few steps to the other side of the van, she motions to the yonder with her arm and slips her phone inside her pocket.
Two guys and a girl, obviously the recipients of her finger wave, close in. Introductions go around, and soon we are in the van, caravanning with several other vehicles to our Twitter-arranged crash pad.
In the backseat, Sash begins to change her clothes. The aroma of the baby wipes she keeps for a spit bath wafts to the front where Mark is driving and I’m riding shotgun. I give her a minute and then hold my hand out for the wipes and use one while changing my shirt.
We’re on the intrastate now and Mark weaves in and out of traffic, following the leading cars.
To say I don’t have a good feeling about this is putting it mildly. No one except me seems nervous, so I breathe in, filling my lungs with oxygen and try to relax. I can’t help myself. It’s because I’ve lived with security guards in and out of my life, with a tracking bracelet on my wrist, behind gates and a state-of-the-art alarm system. A very sheltered life in which I was taught not to trust strangers. But so far, my induction to strangers has gone fine.
Twenty minutes later, Mark hits the brakes, slowing to turn into a long drive.
“Yes!” Sladen shouts as if he’s just won the lotto.
From the back seat, he’s looking ahead through the windshield. The house is monstrous, glowing against the backdrop of a dark sky. Some of my concern evaporates as I take in the beautiful architecture. Psychos don’t live in turn-of-the-century limestone mansions, right?
A dozen cars and trucks line a circular drive. Our convoy parks among them and the occupants of the vehicles begin to spill out. Everyone is babbling as we group and make our way to the house. A beautiful blonde matches my strides. Just ahead, I see Sash is surrounded by guys. Sladen and Mark are also attracting attention.
“Sladen! Hi!”
“Hey!”
And just like that, even more fall into step with us.
I’m feeling better every minute about this arrangement. Obviously, the band is acquainted with some of this crowd. To reassure myself further, I ask, “You know them?”
“No.”
“Really?” I can’t decide if he�
��s pulling my leg. But he sets me straight with a goofy shrug.
The fame of Splynter is apparent in the thousands of Facebook Likes and tens of thousands Sound Cloud plays, but now I’m seeing firsthand how big they are. Big enough for groupies.
We enter a roomy hall. Music pulsates from a room just ahead. Sash turns, seeking me out, but she’s washed away by her wave of admirers. Likewise, Sladen and Mark become separated from me.
“You’re really great!”
“Huh?” I give up trying to follow Sash with my eyes and look down to the streaky head of hair just about touching my chin.
“I love your guitar playing.”
“Oh, thanks.” I appreciate the compliment, but it means much more when Sash or the band is expanding on my technique. “You from around here?”
“I live next door.” She answers with a movement of her head to one direction, as if to point.
She can’t be a day over twenty, and she lives in the neighboring mansion. Possible jailbait. I make a mental note automatically. Not because I’ve ever needed to, but because my dad has drilled me on this subject, among many others.
“Who lives here?” I suddenly wonder if the parents are out of town and the teens are throwing a forbidden party.
“Him.” She points out a guy pouring a bag of ice into a large cooler and then turns her full attention back to me. “I’m Jillian, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you, Jillian.” I respond automatically.
A drink is put in my hand, and again for no reason, my shields shoot up.
When I was younger, my parents warned me against eating anything they hadn’t given me themselves. I have memories of James snatching cookies from my hand, right before they touched my lips. Over the years, that has all relaxed. So the flashback confuses me. It’s because you’re so far out of your element. Trying to shake it off, I take a sip.
“This is so rad. I can’t believe I’m partying with Splynter!” She shouts over the rim of her Solo cup.
“Yeah. It’s cool.” I realize I’m speaking for myself—the same. That I can’t believe I’m here with Splynter. This makes me smile, and encouraged, she rests fingers adorned with rings on my arm.
Tipping my cup, I down the drink, and my blonde beauty is immediately off to fetch another.
A small group surrounds me, making friendly conversation, and we drift onto a back patio area.
“You shred that solo in ‘Things That Sting.’ It’s badass.” One of the guys compliments.
“Thanks.”
“Where are you from, Trey?”
“Florida.” I repeat a lie I’ve told so many times—firstly to Sash, months ago, on Skype.
“I want to live in Florida. Never been to the beach.” Another speaks up.
“It’s cool. But this is great too. The weather here is so much better.”
They all cackle. “Wait a few weeks. You’ll take that back.”
“A few weeks?”
“Winter comes fast, and it’s furious, man.”
“Here you go.” Jillian is back with my drink, and I feel her arms around my waist, tunneling beneath the gap of the jacket I pulled on in the van.
I glance down and see her shooting a look that should kill to the other side of me. Following the scary gaze, I note with surprise another blonde with pink streaks in her hair who is so near, she’s all but touching me. Next to her, is a girl with dark eyes and hair. They’re all wearing ‘fuck me’ faces.
“ …probably don’t get a lot of snow in Florida …”
They all laugh, except one guy who is eying the brunette next to me. I don’t want any trouble, so I make a note as I send an assessing look to the pair not twined against me. Not hitting that.
Just like that, I realize. I’m getting laid tonight.
I don’t know if it’s my dick whispering to my brain and then all-out screeching with joy when Jillian’s touch lands below my belt. I don’t know if some part of me has realistically let Sash go. Or if another piece of me doesn’t want to be an inexperienced idiot if I finally make it into Sash’s bed.
Whatever it is, the reality that tonight is the night hits like a lightning strike.
Some of the others are dancing to the rock tunes blaring from within the house. Inside, the front room has been dimmed.
“…but then there’s Jaws. Ever seen a shark?”
“Um, yeah. A few times.” I reply, but I hate the conversation continuing to batter me with memories of my family.
“How big?”
“It’s hard to judge when you only see the fins. But there’ve been some big ones. And once a baby shark was swimming right around our feet.”
The blonde with the pink streaks was not deterred by Jillian’s earlier death stare. She now has her hand splayed on the ass of my jeans. When I glare at her, she tilts her head, curving her lips in a dirty grin.
Before the dangerous brunette who is now smiling in a similar smile can get any ideas, I lean down, whispering to both fair heads. “Dance?”
Curving an arm to each of their shoulders, I step forward, and the guys part to let us by. I don’t miss the envy in their faces, or the relief in the one guy’s expression when the brunette is left behind.
We enter the house, which is trashed. Below my feet, cups crunch. I stop in the midst of those dancing and reclaim my drinking arm. The beat of the song soaks into my cells as I sip. Violet hues with waves of indigo melt into my mind.
The girls are feeling the moment. The one I released begins a sensuous dance in front of me. I pull the other one closer, pressing her to me as I feast on the eye candy before me.
Jillian grinds her hips to mine, and when I reach out a hand, the other moves in closer.
Behind me, I feel the friction of jeans and soft firm curves.
I had been taking the brimming, super-strong drink slow, pacing it, but as the song plays on and violet turns to navy and blue, I drink it down.
Letting the empty cup drop frees my greedy hands, and I fit them first to her waist.
Which her? It doesn’t matter. They are both all over me.
My hands are gliding over a stretchy tank top. Over a silky blouse. Over tiny tits, and over a generous pair. Over a bare expanse of thigh beneath a short skirt, and over the heat of a jean encased leg. Along a lacey thong, and along a denim sheathed butt.
Sladen gives me a knowing grin from his own groupie club when I weave out of the dance crowd with a girl on each arm.
In a split second of possible indecision, my eyes search for Sash, but she’s nowhere to be seen.
The girls seem to know where they’re going. We stumble down a dark hall. Pictures on the wall grin at us until we spill into a bedroom.
The alcohol seems to make me forget that my scalp was itching with dried sweat an hour ago. If I am grimy from the show, neither girl seems to mind.
We hit the large bed in a tangle of arms and legs. Both girls are kissing on me, and for some reason, I instinctively resist falling back onto the mattress. I sit on the edge with the Jillian girl kneeling between my legs, her head arched back, and her lips to mine. The other girl fumbles with my jeans, and then I feel her bare fingers on my junk. A groan tears through my throat, and I finally relax enough to recline.
Chapter 19
Dream a Little Scream
Jack’s eyes popped open and he stared into the darkness as the dream slipped away. As if seeking atonement, his arm stretched, his fingers curving into the warmth of Mariss’ nightshirt. An exploration of the area revealed the smooth warmth of her hip.
The dream floated across the shadows of the ceiling, and again he shoved it away.
What the hell!
The sex had been vivid, vibrant, and real.
Mariss and Olivia.
Both all over him.
Rolling to her, he threw his leg over hers and curved her into his arms, burying his face into the silky softness of her hair. Closing his eyes, he relaxed back to sleep.
Chapter 20
/> Tubs and Beds
SENDER: Tristan
SUBJECT Hi
Just checking in because I promised. Will write more tomorrow. Love T
Somewhere in the midst of that tryst, I learned the other girl’s name. Now, however, as she rises up shaking the hair from her face, I forget it again. I only know it begins with an ‘N.’
“Fuck that was good!” The familiarity in the way she eyes me feels weird in the aftermath. But since we’re lying atop the bedding, I can’t casually cover myself.
Was it? I wonder. Was it good? Hell, it had been for me, but my original interest of the night seems disappointed and angry. She glares at N-girl and casts a hairy eye my way.
I swing from the bed and pull my jeans on. I’m suddenly parched, and down the hall, the party rages on with iced drinks in coolers.
N-girl is dressing also. When she shines another sweet smile my way, I feel incredibly tender and bow enough to kiss her.
I fit my feet into my sneakers. An odd cocky emotion prevails when I grab the condom. The knot between my thumb and forefinger feels like a rite of passage.
Jillian has put herself to rights and lingers, smoothing at her wrinkled skirt. She doesn’t look at me again, and since she’s on the other side of the bed from where I stand, I reluctantly depart the room, feeling like an ass for not speaking to her.
Closing myself in the adjoining bathroom, I drop my trash into a wastebasket sandwiched between the toilet and vanity.
Positioning in front of the toilet, I’m about to yank my fly open when I see her.
The shower curtains are pulled closed all but a crack. Beyond the yellow rubber duck and blue wave pattern, her body is visible lying in the empty tub. Automatically my gaze goes to the unrestricted view between the gap where the curtain doesn’t meet.
Her dark hair is sleek against her scalp and plastered to the most beautiful breasts I’ve ever seen—on the internet or in my limited experience.
“Sash?” I try to look away, to give her privacy, but my eyes don’t obey at first. “Are you okay?”
