“We could take a nap …” I start, and there must be something in my voice because Creed suddenly doesn’t look so sleepy anymore. His cavalier smile turns into a satisfied male smirk as he pushes up and crawls over to me.
We just barely finish in time to get dressed for the start of the show.
“Gross, gross, gross,” Miranda murmurs as I flush, sitting in the back of the golf cart with her and Lizzie while Zack drives. “I can’t believe I walked in and saw that gross, wrinkly butt.”
“My butt is not wrinkly,” Creed growls, turning around to give her a look. Zack is so big and muscular that only he and Creed fit in the front seat, while the three of us girls fit easily in the back.
“Looked that way, pumping up and down like that …”
“Miranda!” I shout, putting my hands over my ears. “Please stop.”
Having Miranda walk in on me and her twin for a second time was not pleasant. Guess it serves us right for not checking to see if the door was locked.
“Okay, fine, but it still looked wrinkly to me …”
Zack makes a frustrated sounding growl while Lizzie giggles and puts her hand over her mouth. I’m just done with the conversation, so I ignore them all, gaping at the massive, heaving crowd gathering around the stage.
We follow the other golf cart around to the back where several burly security guards check and recheck our badges before letting us backstage.
“What a circus,” Tristan drawls, like he’s bored out of his mind.
“Better than a wrinkly butt,” Lizzie says, and I swear, she does it on purpose. I stop dead in my tracks and turn to look at her, but she’s already breezing past and giggling. Tristan looks at her and then back over at me. If the rumors are true, he hasn’t had sex in … years, right?
“Miranda walked in on me and Creed,” I tell him, locking eyes with that shimmering silver gaze of his. His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t say a word, waiting for the others to pass before Windsor pauses beside me.
“I wasn’t jealous before,” Wind muses, pushing his red hair off his forehead. As per usual, it sticks straight up. “I’m starting to get jealous now. What do you think, Mr. Vanderbilt?”
“Creed’s no threat to me,” he says, standing up straight and storming past us while Creed flips him off from behind.
“Fucking asshole,” he drawls, glancing over to gauge my reaction. I’m standing there, taking in the tension and wondering: how much longer can I do this? How much longer can I keep them all before they start to fight with one another?
“Hey.” Zayd appears, grabbing me by the hand and interrupting my train of thought. He’s got sweatbands on his wrists now, and this fierce look to his face that completely transforms him. He goes from gorgeous, slightly unattainable, mildly dangerous … to transcendent. Zayd Kaiser looks like a rock god. He’s in his element, and he’s feeling the vibes of the crowd.
His energy is infectious.
Zayd drags me to the edge of the stage where his band members are waiting, and the first group of the night starts to tune their instruments. The crowd goes wild in anticipation of the show as Zayd drapes himself over my shoulders, his breath warm against my ear.
“After the show, I need you to help me fend off groupies, okay?” he says, and before I get a chance to open my mouth to ask him about that, the music’s starting, and I can’t hear a damn thing.
For years, I’ve wanted to go to one of Zayd’s concerts and see him perform.
Tonight, I’m finally getting that chance.
The three bands before Zayd’s are good, but their lead singers don’t have that same wild energy that I can feel coursing through him as he touches me, his fingers on every part of my body. I’m wearing an Afterglow tank dress and heels, and it’s like Zayd can’t get enough of me. He basically holds me through all three sets before finally giving me a scorching kiss for luck, and striding out across the stage.
He tears the microphone from its stand, sweeps his fingers through his green hair, and then flashes this ardent look at the crowd that has them screaming.
“Whoa. If I weren’t gay, I might be switching teams to #TeamZayd.” Miranda whistles under her breath as Zayd moves up to the front of the stage and plants one of his boots on a speaker.
“Good evening, California!” he shouts, and a ripple of power seems to surge through the crowd. My heart stutters, and I make a small gasping sound that only Zack seems to notice. He glances from me and over to Zayd, watching him with dark, narrowed eyes, taking him in. “Are you ready to get your fucking faces rocked off tonight?!”
The responding shouts are deafening.
Zayd puts the microphone back on the stand, grabs a lime green guitar shaped like an axe, and strums it. Bern starts up the drums while Aiden plays the bass, and Benji takes up another guitar. I don’t know a lot about rock music per se, but there’s this unforgettable essence in music, something that you learn once and never forget. I might play the harp, but my body resonates with the notes Zayd strums with his fingers.
He opens with a song that’s a hell of a lot heavier than anything I’m used to listening to, but I like it. Sure, I’ll probably be deaf for a few days after, but … it’s so worth it.
“Altered by fire, destroyed by the flame, broken by violence, restored in the rain.” Zayd screams the lyrics into the mic, dropping his voice low as he strums the guitar with a frantic dance of inked fingers. I shiver, goose bumps springing up across my body as I listen to the words and try to decide if I’ve heard this song from him before. But no … this is a new one. A smile curves my lips. No ghostwriter penned this tune. “The fall of your tears was the catalyst I craved, the heat of your mouth was the balm that could save. You opened your eyes, and you saw through my pain.” Zayd pauses his strumming of the guitar, and then growls into the mic in such a way that I feel every single part of me come to life with a violent surge of want.
Holy hell.
Fend off groupies, he said?
I can see why.
“Now dance.” Zayd snaps this part off his tongue and twists his finger in a sharp circle, getting the crowd so riled up that a mosh pit forms near the front of the stage. Miranda and I are both screaming now and jumping up and down.
The energy carries through that song and into the next, when Zayd puts his guitar down and takes his performance up to a whole new level, using the entire stage as the canvas for his art. This next tune is much softer than the first, but still wild. He even climbs into the crowd and sings as they hold him up like a god.
“These videos are going to go viral,” Miranda shouts, soaked in sweat but grinning like a maniac. She points at the crowd and I see dozens … maybe more like hundreds of phones up and recording. She’s probably right. “By tomorrow, your boyfriend’s going to be in even higher demand.” Miranda squeezes my arm, and I wonder if she means that to be comforting … or terrifying.
Five hot, rich, talented guys … I’ve certainly got my hands full.
“Okay, party-fuckers,” Zayd says, panting, his shirt stuck to his body with sweat, green hair plastered to his forehead. He reaches up to scrub a hand down his face and smears his eyeliner. “This next song, I wrote for my girlfriend.” He points an inked finger in my direction and beckons me out toward him, past the safety of the curtain and into the spotlight.
“Go!” Miranda encourages, pushing me out and making me stumble slightly before Zayd is there, grabbing me by the hand and dragging me into the center of the stage. There’s some slight booing from some of the girls, annoying catcalls from some guys, but overall, the crowd seems pretty positive.
“Marnye Reed, y’all.” Zayd is panting as he lifts my arm up high, and I give a little wave to the audience. “She put up with my bullshit, and my bullying, and this song … it’s just for fucking her, okay?” He laughs and the sound travels through me like a shot, warming me up from my very core. “You can listen, but it’s not for you.” Zayd chucks some of his rubber arm bracelets into the crowd, the ones th
at say Afterglow Fangirl on them, before turning to me. “This is a new song, okay? So apologies in advance if I fuck this all the way up.” This last part is said with the switch on his mic turned off.
Zayd’s emerald eyes stare down at me as he slides the mic back into its stand and steps back, turning around and heading for a piano at the end of the stage. He beckons me to sit beside him and puts his fingers on the keys.
“Ready?” he asks me, looking down from under those long lashes of his, his piercings gleaming in the late afternoon sun as it sinks behind the horizon in a molten orange ball. I nod and Zayd exhales, reaching up to turn on his mic. Tattooed fingers rest above the pearly white piano keys, and he starts off with a slow, easy melody that has the crowd swaying with lighters in their hands. His band backs him up with a rougher, more gritty sound that pairs beautifully with the lilting piano notes. “I’ll never be a nice guy, and I’ll never be a saint, but if you’re game to let me try, I’ll make a valiant change. If you could only love me for the asshole that I am, then I swear to God I’d be the man you want to claim.” Zayd pauses and lifts his hands off the keys, glancing back at his band. “Okay, guys, hit it.”
The other three boys hit their instruments hard, rocking the stage as Zayd stands up on the bench, taking his mic with him.
“I’m sorry, Marnye, but I do feel bad,” he croons, sitting down on the top of the piano, sweat dripping down the beautiful inked planes of his skin as he rakes his fingers through his hair and makes it stand up straight. “If there’s any chance of trust, can you give me another chance? There’s so much fear inside, no place to hide. But can you see the real me?”
I’m such a sucker for a good apology, I think as Zayd reaches out, takes my hand, and pulls me into his lap. He’s so freaking warm, and he’s shaking, too, fueled by the adrenaline of the crowd. I swear, it transfers into me as I sit there, listening to him sing a song he wrote, feeling the bass and the drums pummel through my body.
His cock is hard underneath me; I can feel it when I adjust myself, the tension between us stringing taut, an almost painful need overwhelming me as I touch my fingers to the sweaty curves of his biceps, basically feeling him up while he sings. I’m feeling bold, too, so I lean forward and lick the sweat from his throat, causing Zayd to stumble over the words he’s singing. Doesn’t matter though because I can tell he likes it, his body vibrating as he belts the song out and slides a hand up my back. His fingers sneak around and grab my breast, right in front of everyone.
My heart is pounding so hard, I can barely hear anything else. It’s like I’m cut off from the rest of the world, wrapped in a rock god’s aura. Zayd’s eyes close as he sings the ending of the song, “can you see the real me?” and then drops the mic and picks me up in his arms, hopping off the piano as the crowd screams and surges forward, pushing against the metal fence that blocks off the front of the stage.
“Let’s take a quick break, shall we?” he asks, and I nod.
Zayd and I barely make it backstage before we’re tearing at each other’s clothes, kissing violently, tongues tangling. His hands are sweaty as he yanks my tank dress over my head and tosses it aside, palming both my breasts in his colorful hands. I’m backed up to a speaker, so I scoot back until I’m sitting on it, my own hands fighting with Zayd’s tight jeans.
There’s nobody over here, behind the stage and around the corner of the faux wall erected between the row of portable toilets and one of the staff parking areas. That doesn’t mean there won’t be somebody here shortly.
We don’t exactly have a lot of time.
But that’s okay.
I’m not here for a long, drawn-out session of experimental hands and wandering mouths.
Zayd and I are finally going to let loose on this chemistry that’s been plaguing us since day one, when he walked into Ms. Felton’s homeroom and looked me over with a smirk. “I’d fuck you, if you were game.” One of the first things he ever said to me. Back then, I wanted to kill him.
Now … I’m game for sure.
Those pretty inked fingers of his slip into his pocket for a condom, and he’s got it on in half a heartbeat, yanking me close and looking me right in the face.
“Tell Zack and Creed I’m sorry,” he growls, his voice still stuck halfway between speech and song.
“For what?” I whisper, shaking all over, my hands curled in his sweaty tank.
“For putting them to shame. Let me show you how a rock star fucks.” Zayd pushes aside my panties, and I gasp. He cocks a sharp smirk on those perfect lips before he slides into me hard and fast. My head falls back, and I find that I can barely breathe. “Look at me, Marnye,” he purrs as one of the other bands fills the sudden gap onstage, and music surges through me like a storm.
My eyes feel impossible to keep open, but Zayd curls his fingers in my hair and pulls me close, kissing me and tasting like fresh sweat and the orange Powerade he was drinking onstage. His right hand slides up and grasps my breast through my bra, kneading the soft flesh as he fucks me against the speaker.
I’ve got so much adrenaline in me, I’m shaking all over. But holy crap, that feels good. Zayd licks up the side of my face and bites my earlobe, causing my back to arch and ripples of pleasure to arc through me. He’s moving so hard and fast, working his pelvis in just such a way that he stimulates every single part of me.
The sound of the crowd turns into a background noise to our fucking, this easy to ignore rumble that blends into this almost surreal sort of moment.
He’s big, too. I might be sore later, I think as I squeeze my legs tighter around him. That piercing I saw earlier, I can feel it, even through the condom. There’s a split-second there where I worry it might break, but surely Zayd Kaiser knows what he’s doing? God, it sure feels like he knows what he’s doing. The little metal piece stirs shivers of pleasure in me that are as foreign as they are welcome.
My arms go around Zayd’s neck, and I end up biting his shoulder—hard.
He groans as I finish, my body locking around him, drawing his own pleasure out in a guttural male sound that’s not quite as practiced and polished as the lyrics he sang for me onstage.
“Shit,” Zayd moans, breathing hard and gathering me up in his arms. “Fuck.”
“Hey.”
We both freeze as a voice draws us out of the moment, and I realize that I’m not wearing my dress anymore, and that Zayd is still very much buried inside of me.
It’s Tristan.
“You’ve got people looking for you,” he says, like he’s bored shitless. The way he looks at the two of us … I can’t tell if he’s furious … or like, if he doesn’t care. He’s completely shut down. “Hurry up.”
He turns and leaves as Zayd curses under his breath and slides out of me, taking off the condom and finding the nearest trash can while I scramble around for my dress. Just as I’m about to pull it over my head, he grabs the fabric around my wrists, effectively trapping me with the dress covering my eyes.
“You promised to help me fend off groupies tonight. Don’t forget.” I make a sound of acknowledgement, and Zayd cuts me off by kissing me with this hard, possessive edge to his lips. “You’re my only groupie now, Charity.” He releases me, and I yank the dress down as he takes off for the stage.
I follow behind, pausing next to Tristan near the steps and giving him a look.
“Are you—”
“I don’t care who you fuck, Marnye,” he says, and then he takes off and disappears for the rest of the night. If I hadn’t seen Lizzie dancing with a group of her old Coventry Prep friends, I’d worry they’d gone somewhere together.
As things stand, Zayd Kaiser does quite literally get swarmed with girls by the end of the set. His friends invite a good half of them into the party, and I end up plastered by his side through the sheer presence of the crowd. There’s hardly enough room to walk.
“Lucky bitch,” one of the girls murmurs, and Zayd gives her this dark look that proves to me he’s right: he’s just as
much of an asshole now as he’s always been.
“Talk to her like that again, and I’ll show you the door myself, get it?” he snaps, and I raise my eyebrows as he looks down at me. “What? The only person that gets to bully you is me.”
“Aw, wow, such a romantic statement,” I say with a roll of my eyes, but I know it’s a joke, so I let it go.
Later that night, I end up in Zayd’s bed with Zayd and only Zayd, and he shows me he’s just as capable of going slow as he is fast.
The first thing I do when I get home from the concert is hit up Planned Parenthood with Miranda. She talks incessantly about how lucky she is that she doesn’t need birth control, but her constant chatter helps calm my nerves. And she’s got a point. Lucky bitch.
“You are so adulting right now,” she tells me when we walk out of there with birth control pills and climb into the Maserati.
“I am, huh?” I say, trying to find a place to put the giant box of condoms they shoved in my arms on the way out. I’m sure Charlie’s vaguely aware that I’m sexually active, but it’s not something he wants to see evidence of, I’m sure. “Should we go out to celebrate? A special birth control lunch?”
“Let’s wear our uniforms and go intimidate preppy, bourgeois brats in Grenadine Heights.”
“That doesn’t sound very adult to me,” I tell Miranda as I start the car, and she gives me a look, pulling down her shades to stare at me with ice-blue eyes.
“Just because we’re hitting eighteen doesn’t mean we have to give up on all the fun stuff. Come on, let’s go. Food’s on me.”
I grin, but I have to admit: that does sound like fun. Those all-black Burberry Prep uniforms have a way of drawing attention.
I slip my own shades on, and we head back to the house to grab our uniforms. Miranda’s spending the night again, so all her stuff’s piled on my bedroom floor. The Cabots have a huge beach house, but her parents have guests, so she’s made herself scarce. Creed, on the other hand, somehow got roped into an endless string of dinners and cocktail parties. I almost feel sorry for him.
In the Arms of the Elite Page 8