#Kissing (Rock and Romance #1) (2 page)

Chapter 3

I untangle myself from the sheets back in the hotel room. Steam from Niko's shower billows and puffs from the bathroom door. I roll over; hitting a spot of arousal when my legs squeeze together, landing on the spot Niko can't quite reach. No one else has either, but they've never tried. He was my first and my only. Most girls wouldn't wait until they were in their twenties to have sex, but I'm not most girls. And the right guy, well, it never happened between us, and now it's too late.

I linger there, willing arousal to turn into something deeper, calling up a cosmic stars-behind-the-eyes, room spinning moment—and not because of low blood sugar. I shift my hips, experimenting with my inner architecture, desperate to get an orgasm to build.

Niko appears with damp hair and a white towel wrapped around his waist. The bleached purity of it contrasts with the dark ink covering his torso: mountains and arrows, a howling wolf and a heart, a bird in flight forming from the branches of a tree. He has the requisite "first-time" tattoos hidden in the designs. There's also a memorial to his dog, an infinity symbol, and the name of the band with a halo for the letter O with devil horns.

I'm contemplating getting one to match. I can't decide if Bubbie would approve, but I know my mother wouldn't, so I'm leaning toward yes.

I study the letter O brandished on his skin just above the bones of his hip. He's rocker fit, not muscular necessarily, but trim and sexy and lickable.

My attention lingers on the O. Orgasm. The unicorn, the big bang, the main event…That unique little hit of pleasure from having sex with a partner that I can't make happen. Or I can blame it on him—when he drinks too much or gets high he can't quite perform—and I don't mean onstage.

I tell myself that if I try enough times and I'm patient, it'll happen. Thankfully, I found someone willing, except he doesn't know he can't give me an orgasm. Luckily, he makes everything else feel insanely good so I'm happy to keep working at it. But the only success I've ever had is from a ménage à moi.

Still naked, I curl my finger toward him, slinking to the edge of the bed. I drop his towel to the floor and take his dick in my hand, massaging it in a gentle fist at first.

His eyes, already heavy, tell me he's ready to go again. We make a great pair with our matching appetites—me chasing the orgasm and one of his top two faves being those blissful moments when he comes. The other, playing music.

I slide my hands up and down his shaft, warm from the shower in my cold hand. When I take it in my mouth, it grows instantly, my saliva stimulating him. I move rhythmically, bouncing lightly on the bed.

I run my tongue up and down, letting my teeth drag for a fraction of a second because he likes it when I bring him to the edge, but then pull back. I resume sucking, licking, loving on his dick like it's my own personal toy until I feel it tighten and then he stiffens.

He grips my shoulders, steadying me. "Babe," he calls, pumping my mouth full of cum.

When I pull away, I wipe my lips.

He reclines on the bed and lets out a belated moan that tells me he liked it. "They say it's bad luck to get off before a show." I hear laughter in his voice.

"Fuck luck," I say.

He wipes himself with his towel and wraps my naked body in his, his still-hot cock pressing up against my thigh.

"When the tour is over, where do you want to get lost?" I ask, one of our favorite conversations. So far, we've fantasy-traveled to Tahiti, Sweden, and about a dozen other places far from here.

"I've been a little homesick," he answers.

"London?"

"Mhmm." His eyes dip toward sleepy.

"As long as there's a bed just like this." The house with the wide front porch comes to mind, but instead I add, "And cookies."

"And room service. I'm starved. You hungry?"

"If you recall, I just had a mouthful."

"You're so fucking dirty. I love it." His eyes squint when he's happy and drunk, but thankfully, right now, he's mostly sober—otherwise, I wouldn't have been as successful in my attempt to get him off. "Whadya wanna eat?" Nonetheless, he slurs the words together.

I raise an eyebrow.

It used to be an effort to dive off the tower of academic excellence—mentally correcting improper grammar and general verbal idiocy—and plunge my mind into the gutter. Now it's almost too easy.

Music. Alcohol. And sex cured me, in that order. Niko wouldn't have given the girl I was before a second glance—the girl in line for a successful career, the aforementioned home, a loving husband, and kids, the dog, etcetera. It's a nice idea, but I can't imagine Niko in the carpool lane or coaching little league.

"Where are we now?" I ask, the transient memory of my former life, my dream life flitting by, in exchange for taking a gander at where I've landed.

He pauses. "I think we're in one of those square states."

"Your knowledge of American geography is appalling."

"Ah, but my first-hand knowledge of your geography is impressive." He runs a finger down my chest before cupping my breast in his guitar-string calloused hand.

I roll on top of him, but his stomach grumbles.

My smile turns into a laugh and then into gentle teasing as I rock on top of him, hoping he has it in him to go again and try to make me come.

"I love when you do that," he says.

"What? Position myself to have sex with you?"

"Well, yes, that, but when you laugh. It's the sound of a happy life."

I snort. "Yeah? You think so?" A happy life. A dream life. A not-living in hotels and getting drunk every night life. But this is the life I choose.

My fingers find his tattoo and the letter O. Then they travel further south, testing his stamina, if he's ready.

We have sex again.

He probably popped a little blue pill when he went to take a shower.

Sex tally to date = hundreds of times, in hundreds of places—I've long since lost count.

Orgasm success rate: Niko = hundreds.

Me = 0

I shower and dress in a sinful combination of a torn tank and skintight jeans, swiping on red lipstick. He slaps my ass when I shrug on a leather moto jacket.

He thumbs his phone. "Meetup for Chinese." I chuck his phone in my bag, lace my fingers around his, and lead the way.

Chapter 4

We find Mitty, Kenji, and a few girls chirping in Japanese and fawning over the Halo's drummer on the sidewalk outside the hotel. I've gathered that Kenji, with his ballistic arms telegraphing into insanely fast drumbeats, prefers more than one girl at a time.

Niko claps them both on the back. "What's the plan?" Then, bouncing up and down, drawing his hands to his mouth, and blowing clouds into the air, he says, "Let's go. I'm already freezing my balls off."

Kenji parades down the sidewalk and around the corner with his groupies in tow. Their devil-tails bob as they trot behind him—typical groupie gear involves red devil tails or feathery angel wings or both.

Even though it isn't Halloween yet, we all dress for any and every occasion. Mitty in his industrial size boots and the beginnings of a beard. Niko in his tight pants and T's, and Kenji always in costume with everything from bizarre Lady Gaga-esque attire, mesh and spandex, to the occasional business suit.

For me, red lipstick and a grand entrance works every time.

We pour into the restaurant where Slade, a girl named Kat who's been with the band longer than me, and a few others already commandeer a large table. We're greeted like royalty by the members of the Halos squad, warily by the servers at the restaurant, and with wide-eyed interest by the customers.

It's pageantry, a spectacle. There is sure to be whispering and speculation about what the band eats, if they're actually human, and who's in their company. It's glamour and glitz and we all savor every moment of it. Except Jill, when she's in attendance.

It won't be long before someone comes over, all hushed and polite, or giggling and groping and begging for an autograph.

We squish around the table. The server's patience wanes as we chatter, ask questions, make substitutions, and deliberate the Scorpion Bowl versus something called the Twin Dragon.

Dishes come out piecemeal, but the beverages continue to flow as we share straws and sips of exotic drinks in unnatural colors served in coconut shells and with lots of flair.

I'm carded, which rarely happens when I'm with the Halos—I just turned twenty-two this month so it shouldn't be a surprise. Niko's twenty-seven and the others are around the same age, except for Slade. He might have come from the Paleolithic era.

Kenji's girls constant giggling suggests they haven't yet reached eighteen. Or he's hilarious, but since he rarely speaks English, I have no idea what he's saying.

The conversation turns to the set list, and I pull out my phone, ordering an app to teach me Japanese. I may have deferred and then deferred college again, but unless I'm drunk, my mind remains hungry to learn or create. If that fails, I default to causing mischief, especially if I'm bored.

Jill, her eyes ringed black with liner and her hair spiked to perfection, appears at the head of the table. Without preamble, she takes a glass of beer from a server's hand. "What's the plan?" she growls.

"I've been asking that all night," Niko says in his most charming voice.

Slade chimes in with Mitty, commenting about the last show. The band continues the nightly set list conversation.

I turn to my phone, breezing through friendly greetings in Japanese, common expressions and phrases, but don't find the dirty words and slang. I opt for bathroom vocabulary. My accent needs work, but Kenji and the girls across the table go quiet, watching me with amused interest.

In Japanese he asks, "Those words won't get you anywhere." At least this is what I think he says when I punch it in for translation.

I answer, "Not with you."

The girls giggle at my teasing.

He says more, but the only word I catch is suck, which makes sense, because he's Kenji. However, he may be commenting on the conversation surrounding us as they continue to debate whether to open with the danceable song, Suck It, the angsty, Rub It, or the moody song, Go if you Wanna.

Niko absently slings his arm around my shoulder. "What do you want to hear first, babe?"

"Show us your Tits, of course," but I say it in Japanese.

Kenji and the girls laugh. One with cotton candy pink pigtails lifts her shirt.

Jill bumps the table, knocking over drinks as she gets up and storms out.

My own laughter raises the chorus in our corner of the restaurant. Aside from being Niko's girlfriend, the Halos keep me around because I'm skilled at instigating chaos. If my observations serve my hypothesis, an element of discord and unpredictability, not to mention fun and amusement, are important components to any band worthy of topping the charts.

Chapter 5

Back at the club, I give Niko a quick smooch as he loops his guitar strap over his shoulder.

"Watch for me in the crowd," I purr.

"You can stay back here, watch from the side of the stage," he says, strumming a chord and warming up his fingers.

As a rule, I always lose myself in the crowd. "You didn't find me on the side of the stage."

"No, that first night we met backstage," he says with his patent sultry smile, reminding me of what we did in his room that first night.

"But I wouldn't have been there if I hadn't first watched you play. See, you know that I'm a real deal Halos fan, not some fangirl hoping for a second or two in the spotlight."

"But everyone gets so sweaty out there."

"I thought you liked me sweaty or is it that you don't want anyone getting handsy?" I smirk.

"I don't like the idea of some bloke rubbing his sweaty balls on you." He holds up his hands. "These hands were made for this guitar and your—" He pulls me to his hips just as Slade calls him.

"See ya out there," I call, blowing him a kiss. I tuck my access pass into my back pocket so the bouncers don't think I'm trying to sneak in later, forcing me to text Niko and have him tell some over-muscled asshole that I'm better than a groupie.

The particular frenzy of backstage morphs from last minute monitor repairs—and choking back the remnants of stage fright—to the synchronous heart-pumping anticipation of those opening chords as the music stretches from here to infinity. Instruments and amps and hundreds of voices transform what might be understood as merely sound and instead whisper their truths to our souls.

Since I can't have the dream house and dream life, I'll take this. The moment promising the transcendence of music.

Niko told me he used to puke before going on stage and then said it stopped when I came along. The blowjobs and sex help, I'm sure of it, because he's one-hundred percent swagger as the lights follow him across the stage.

Mitty appears, his bass strung low, but not for style points, rather, his long arms. Jill ghosts into position, but then the light catches her hardcore expression and if nothing else, she's a rock goddess. There's no disputing it even if there's not much else to like about her.

Kenji's last, having changed into a purple robe with a white fur collar and a gold crown studded with jewels. He throws off the robe and pounds his chest, his nightly ritual before going bananas on the drums.

My body hums as I elbow my way to the front. Hundreds of fans keep the autumn chill out of the venue. The lights dim before flaring back on.

My shoulders relax. My mind goes quiet. People all around me cheer, calling out to the band, hands already raised in the air, yearning for that thing only music provides.

The notes ring out and all at once, our thoughts drown, worries hang on nooses made of nylon strings, and drumsticks impale the haunting doubts of insecurity.

The opening of the song disappears into a cheer. The Halos continue, carrying us, in our bouncing, bopping, singing-along madness straight up to heaven where it doesn’t matter where we came from or where we're going or if we purposely failed our finals, didn't show up at our own graduation party, and left in a wake disappointment and the ruins of a perfectly orchestrated life.

#FuckPerfection

Now this is my life.

When Niko howls into the microphone, "Show us your tits." I oblige. And I dance. I throw myself into the foot stomping, chaotic center of the action. Elbows jab my sides, there's skin contact, damp hair in my face, fists pumping the air, and all our voices shouting the words as though our lives depend on it.

When the chorus comes around again with the shout, "Show us your tits," as one, all the girls lift their shirts, revealing breasts in all shapes and sizes. Even a few guys join the show. We flash the band, we flash the crowd, and we flash each other.

My breasts aren't particularly huge, but they're real, shapely, perky, and according to the guy standing next to me, whistle and ogle-worthy.

This is why Niko doesn't like when I join the crowd. This is why I do. It's a rush. A thrill and reminds me I'm still alive even if Bubbie isn't.

I gesture for him to give me a boost and he's all too happy to grope me as he does. I'm all too happy to kick off a little harder than I should when I climb onto the stage.

Audience participation grants guaranteed access backstage after the show; the diehards and girlfriends of the diehards know this. Niko tolerates it. Jill hates it. Slade encourages it.

I lift my shirt along with my middle finger and flip everyone off, a smile on my lips, and a laugh in my throat. Then I throw myself into the crowd, diving backwards, and sailing over heads as hands pass me away from the stage. It's skin on skin, humming in my bones, and I whoop.

I dance and thrash around, forgetting almost every ache and regret. I imagine the only thing better than this is actually being on the stage playing the music. Though my fingers haven't touched key or string in years.

Another secret Niko doesn't know about me is that when he's working through a particularly difficult riff, I'm already on the bridge. My mother not only raised a genius, but a music prodigy, though the credit for the aptitude rests solely with Bubbie, courtesy of her old piano.