Strings (10 page)

I wander to the ass end of the bus. More
seating—perfect rehearsal space—buffers the sleeping area. The very
back is topped off with a claustrophobic nightmare of a shower with
a clear glass door on the left side. Nice. These perverts think
they’re gonna get an eyeful of Letty Dillinger test-driving the
detachable showerhead on her cooch? Fuck them. Creative placement
of a few Hendrix posters will take care of that. At least the
toilet is sectioned off on the right. Sink in the middle.

As Kate and Jinx continue checking out the
marvels of Shades’s going-away present from Daddy Dearest, I push
past and head for the bunks. “Which one is yours?” I ask
Toombs.

He points to the last one on the bottom
left. I toss my backpack and guitar case onto the opposite bed on
the right and get up close and personal with him. He smells like
cinnamon gum.

“
Jinx is off limits,” I
say softly while everyone else is busy drooling. “Why don’t you try
Kate instead?”

His gaze flickers to my pixie friend and
nearly burns a hole through her. Something menacing flashes behind
his silvery devil eyes. His nostrils twitch. “Gentlemen prefer
blondes.”

“
Well, when you find a
gentleman, be sure to introduce him.”

Kate wriggles between us
with a grunt. She climbs into the bed above mine and snaps the
curtain shut. Naturally,
I
get the bitch for a bunkmate. But at least this
sleeping arrangement will keep Toombs away from Jinx. I don’t trust
him, and I definitely don’t like the way he ogles her.

“
If you guys are ready,
I’m gonna get rolling,” Freddie calls from the front.

“
Rock on,” Rax
says.

The engine cranks up. Jinx claims the bottom
bunk adjacent to mine, and Jillian stuffs her purse in the space
above Jinx.

“
Since we’ve got several
hours of driving, it might be a good idea to get in a little
rehearsal time,” Jillian says. “I’m still not happy with the bridge
on ‘Take It Like a Man.’”

Kate’s curtain slides open. “Where do you
propose we do that?”

Jillian gestures to the tables. “Hop to it.”
She claps her hands twice.

Kate frowns and slides down from her perch.
She puts a cap on her attitude and moseys to the front. Jinx
follows. I’m not sure what the guys are doing in the back, and I
don’t care.

No, really. I don’t. I’m here to rock with
my girls.

Kate settles down on the couch and plugs
into her monitor. She puts on headphones. Jinx whips out her
electronic tabletop drum kit and joins her.

I wonder how Jillian convinced Kate to join
us on the tour. Kate’s not her usual stabby self. If she had a
tail, its tip would be in her mouth. Interesting.

I crack open my bass case and join the
chicks for an epic practice/jam session. When my growling stomach
prompts me to check my watch, I nearly shit myself. One thirty?
Where the hell did the day go? Guess I got caught up in The Rock.
That’s a great thing.

I look out the front window. Freddie pulls
into the lot at the venue, parks, and shuts down the engine. Chills
race up my arms. Holy shit. This is it. We’re playing a gig
someplace outside of Athens, Georgia. People don’t know us here.
But they will after tonight.

I smile. Hell, yes.

The guys announce they’re going for burgers
down the street. The girls ask if I want to grab food, but I can’t
fucking afford it. I politely decline and retire to my bunk for
some rest.

When everyone’s gone, I grab one of the
cheap protein bars I packed and eat it too fast. Still hungry, I
look around for a distraction. I can’t devour my entire food stash
on the first day of the tour.

Music. That ought to send my mind in a
different direction.

I shove in my earbuds, pull up my ’70s
playlist, and crank up the ancient iPod. A few minutes later, I
fall into a hard sleep filled with dreams of Shades’s rugged face
buried in my muff. Shit, I can’t even escape him when I’m
unconscious.

Why? Why must my raging libido hold me
hostage like this?

Zeppelin’s “The Lemon Song” fills my ears as
I climb out of my dream back to the toilet of reality. No heater
running while the bus is parked. Feels as cold and empty as my
apartment.

I pause the music, slide the drape aside,
and peer out. “Anybody here?”

No answer. I restart the song and close the
curtain.

I lie shivering on my back, staring at the
steel ceiling of my too-small cage. Thoughts return to Shades, even
though he’s off limits.

It irks me how he blew me off. I’m not used
to being ignored. Maybe because he’s loaded, he thinks he’s better
than me.

I fucking hate entitled, rich assholes.

So why do all of my roads lead back to Todd
Armstrong’s Emerald Fucking City?

The way he bossed me around the night I
butt-boinked him tickles the pleasure center of my brain. I
expected him to submit. I liked the idea of controlling him.
Humiliating him. Using him. When it backfired, it turned me on even
more.

I’ve never had a lover top me from bottom.
I’m always the one on top, even when I give up the ass. I’m the
classic control freak.

Jimmy Page’s solo mesmerizes me…

I recall the feel of Shades’s gorgeous
tattooed spine against my tits while I pounded him, the burning
expression when I called him a whore…My legs shift under the thin
blanket. I drag a hand over my aching breasts and rub hard,
imagining his hungry mouth there. The flat of my other hand rubs my
clit through the jeans in slow, sensual circles. The freezing bus
isn’t so cold anymore.

I unzip my pants, push them halfway down my
legs, and kick off the covers.

Shades worked miracles on
my pussy that night.
The tongue
stud
. Jesus, the tongue stud. I close my
eyes, spread my legs, and diddle my clit to the music seducing my
ears. I picture his face as he stared up at me from his perch atop
my mound. When he finished tongue-drilling me, he looked like he’d
eaten a gourmet glazed donut.

A wave of love juices floods my basement. I
slide fingertips through the thick puddle, pretending it’s his
glorious tongue writing me a love song. I taste myself. I fuck
myself. I fall victim to memories best left forgotten.

The orgasm stalks me like a cautious
predator, waiting for the right moment to spring. My finger-lanced
pussy begs for release. The music rises to its climax and—

A sudden cold breeze hits my twat. Light
filters through my closed lids. I open my eyes, sit straight up—or
at least try to—and crack my forehead on the bunk above me.

“
Fuck!” I slap a palm to
my head and squint at the brightness through the dull
ache.

Shades peers down at me through his
trademark dark glasses, brow arched, grinning, smugger than a
guilty man getting away with murder.

I yank up the blanket and rip the buds from
my ears.

“
Do you need a hand?” He
laughs. The fucker
laughs
at me.

I’m rarely struck speechless, but I can’t
think of a single thing to say. I whip the curtain closed, grazing
his nose in the process. He totally deserved that. And a lot
more.

His laughter continues as he traipses down
the aisle toward the back of the bus. Sounds of feet climbing the
steps echo through the humiliation.

Oh my God, I could fucking die.

I tug my clothes into
proper position and tumble out of the bed into a heap on the floor
behind Shades. He turns around and looks down his punk-ass nose at
me. “You
sure
you
don’t need a hand?”

Standing, I shoot him a bird with my
wrinkled, pussy-drenched middle finger. “No, but here’s a finger
for you.” I lick it.

His nostrils flare. “I can’t wait to see
Cherry Buzz Float on stage tonight.”

I’m not sure if he’s teasing or serious.
I’ll be smart and assume it’s the former. Unless he’s sizing up his
competition…

“
Because you’ve never seen
a real rock band? Don’t worry. We’ll be gentle when we pop your
cherry.” I pat his cheek with my masturbating hand, intentionally
leaving a wet spot in his stubble.

“
I prefer it
rough.”

“
That can also be
arranged.” I give him my back and take one step toward the front
where Jinx taps out rhythms on her drum board, and Kate is plugged
into her monitor headphones, practicing. Shades’s hand on my arm
stops me.

“
What?” I spin around and
launch a barrage of eye-daggers at him.

Without a lick of emotion on his face, he
shoves a white paper bag in my hands. I open it. A wrapped burger
and a carton of fries. My heart skips a beat. When I look up, he’s
gone.

Well…

Shit.

A Little Bit High, a
Little Bit Low

The stage is dark. I sense fans moving below
me like a colony of ants, but there’s not much noise. Why aren’t
they screaming? My knee bounces so hard, I don’t even try to stop
it. This is it. This is opening night. This is the beginning of my
new life.

I hope to hell I don’t fuck it up.

Jinx cracks off a four-count with her
drumsticks. Kate and I rip into one of our most popular songs, “No
Good.”

The spotlight falls on me, shocking,
blinding. My heart submits to the rhythm my bass controls. The
massive, rolling low notes pound, drill, and devour. Sonic booms
spank the sound barrier like a naughty kid. I smile.

Thor’s hammer ain’t got nothing on Letty
Dillinger’s bass guitar.

Cheers and whistles pierce the smoke-laden
club. The Rock grabs me by the tits and shakes me.

Playing in front of crowds energizes me.
It’s a shot of adrenaline right in the heart. The moment I mount
the stage, I make the venue my bitch. I shove my mighty womancock
in the place and just fuck the living fuck out of it.

Live shows void the suckage in my life, if
only for an hour. When the fans bounce and dance and scream before
me, I’m a goddess to be worshipped.

The music rattles the walls, the rafters,
the floor—an audio dragon with breath of deafness. It’s metal and
leather and tattooed skin. It’s raw sex with a shot of tequila.
It’s silk sheets set afire.

The crowd gathers closer. Fans smile up at
me.

I thrust my hips, slash my Fender, and
scream lyrics. My raspy voice and Kate’s mad riffs complement each
other. My bass rhythms syncopate with Jinx’s downbeats.

Kate, Jinx, and I are components of one
whole. Together, we’re sweat and sound and need. We’re made of the
same primal instinct that drives people to feed, fuck, and
fight.

Tonight, we
are
The Rock.

When “No Good” ends with Jinx catching her
crashed cymbal, the crowd claps. Not nearly the welcome I hoped
for, but at least they’re on their feet. I scan the room through
the bright lights. People of every size, shape, and color dot the
pit. A girl on the left screams my name.

I laugh into the mic and will my voice to
steady. “How you guys feeling tonight, Columbia?”

Shouts and appreciative whistles.

“
You ready to get
fucked
by three badass
bitches?” I thrust my hips to accentuate the
fuck
.

The volume rises.

I cup a hand over the back of my ear.
“Sorry, what was that? You don’t like getting fucked by beautiful
women? That’s a shame. We’re horny as hell.”

“
Fuck us!” a guy in front
yells. He’s drunker than an unemployed rodeo clown. Man, I wish I
were too.

I prop a combat boot on the monitor, knowing
full well the boys can see up my red plaid miniskirt to the cute
little lace panties underneath.

Drunkie McSkunkie rouses his nearby buddies
with a chant. “Fuck us, fuck us, fuck us…”

“
Really?” Their calls
reignite the hope floundering in my chest.

More join in. “Fuck us, fuck us…”

I turn to Jinx and Kate and find some of my
lost nerve. “These guys want some. Let’s give them a shot of Cherry
Buzz Float.”

Kate nods, lifts the neck of her guitar to
her lips and slides her tongue down its length. Then she tears into
the opening of a new song we’ve been working on, “Come
Crashing.”

Jinx and I build the
foundation with a complicated rhythm, giving and taking. The music
connects us, ties us together with invisible strings. It’s the most
beautiful form of slavery in the world. I’m not a lesbian, but
I
feel
Jinx in a
way that transcends the other emotions in my repertoire. It’s like
we’re two separate arms of the same body. If she improvises for a
few beats, I never have to think about how to respond. I just do.
It’s perfectly natural for me. And a little fucking scary how
attuned our minds are sometimes.

I could probably go lesbian for Jinx if I
had to. Hell, I might already be a little—at least for the part of
Jinx who sits behind the drums. But what we have isn’t about sex.
It’s about this amazing thing we share right now. The Rock.

“
When you come crashing,
I’ll be there,” I sing. “I’ll hold you up when you get scared. I’ll
pull you back down when you float away. When life overwhelms you,
I’ll open my wings. When the pain is unbearable, come crashing into
me.”

Endorphins raid my brain, and I lose myself
in this moment of communion with my bandmates, our audience, the
whole fucking universe.

My flow software engages, and I ride a wave
of total immersion in time, space, and connection for the rest of
the set.