He spent hours in the extra bedroom he used as a studio, smoking weed and DJing. I loved to practice shuffle dancing in the living room while he spun. And when he bought Ableton, a music production software geared toward DJs, he devoted the same attention toward making danceable hits. One afternoon, he’d been laboring for hours over a bassline, and something in the space between the notes called to me. I started singing, a little melody that had bubbled up in my head to fit the music.
“Andrea!” he yelled.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.” I’d walked over, intending to close the door.
“Can you do that again?” He didn’t look away from his large, wall-mounted monitor, which was framed with colorful flyers from raves where he’d played.
“You mean, sing?”
“No, I mean do a cartwheel. Yes, dingbat. Sing what you just sang again.”
“Okay.”
He hit a button to start the track, and I sang again—meekly, a little afraid.
“Not like that!” He punched pause. “Like you did it last time.”
I tried my best, worried that it wasn’t good enough. My voice didn’t approach the uninhibited joy I’d projected while singing to myself. But Jonathan nodded.
“Not bad.” He turned and looked at me. “I might be able to use you. If you don’t fuck up when I put a mic in your face.”
That was the beginning of our collaboration—if you could call it that. But Jonathan ended up getting fired from his security job for failing a drug test, which put an end to his musical aspirations. I offered to get a job to keep us afloat, but he wasn’t having it.
“You think a little minimum wage job at some fast food chain will pay the bills?” He snorted. “I’m going to have to make us some real money.”
He said he would focus on DJing and throwing parties. Instead, he started cooking meth and selling it at raves. And though he denied it, I knew he was using much of the product himself. That’s when the abuse got really bad.
“And that’s why I left,” I concluded. Vance brushed the tears out of my eyes.
“I bet you think I’m an idiot for staying with him so long.”
“I think you’re a romantic,” he said. “I think you were a young girl in love. And I think he was an abuser who took advantage of that. And I know…I promise…I’ll never let him hurt you again.”
Vance kissed me, ever so gently, as if I was a delicate piece of china that he didn’t want to break. But I wasn’t as fragile as he thought. I kissed him back, passionately, and felt his desire flare.
“Well, I should take a shower,” I said, extricating myself from his arms once more. Vance sat back against the pillows, stifling a sigh. But he didn’t protest or force himself on me, the way Jonathan would have. “Care to join me?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” he said, grinning.
Chapter 17
Andrea
Last time with Vance had been passionate, but so frenzied, so rushed. This time, I was determined to take things slow. To restrain myself…and to tease him just a little in the process.
I slipped off my shirt, leggings and panties, and saw Vance’s member immediately become tumescent. He moved toward me, and I felt the warm, insistent pulsing of his shaft against my hip. As much as I longed to feel him inside me, I stepped away, smiling and bidding him to follow me. It would be better if we savored each delicious moment.
And he was delicious, a perfect Adonis of a man. The golden sunset light lit his blonde hair aflame, and desire flickered in his hazel eyes. His slim but muscular torso narrowed to a V, as if pointing at the beautiful emblem of male desire jutting out from his honey-blonde thatch of pubic hair. A single drop of pre-cum glistened on the tip. I couldn’t wait to taste it.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I said as I made my way to the granite whirlpool tub. A large window above the tub revealed leafy forest views. Anyone who walked by would get an eyeful, I thought as I turned on the hot water. But the dense forestry was a reminder of how secluded this cabin was.
Hot water poured from the rainfall shower head, immersing us in warmth and steam. I worked a bar of vanilla-scented, French-milled soap into a lather and caressed it into Vance’s shoulders, chest, and finally, his shaft. He moaned and leaned against the granite tiles. His eyes rolled back into his head as I massaged his swelling, eager cock with both hands, finally rinsing it and taking the head into my mouth.
I circled my tongue around the head and pumped the shaft with both hands, feeling him turn to steel. His moans went from soft whimpers to groans. I have to admit, it was a real turn-on to know this rock star, who seduced stadiums of fans, was putty in my hands…and mouth.
“Andrea, you’re amazing,” he said.
His balls were clenched up, and I could tell he was on the brink of orgasm when I pulled my lips away. He pushed me against the plate glass. I felt his breath hot on my neck, his shaft, pressing urgently at the cleft between my buttocks. But even though I was wet and ready, he only teased me, circling my pulsing lips with his head.
“You want this?” he said, playfully, holding my weighty breasts in his hands.
“Yes, yes!” I begged. My pussy felt like molten lava as he rubbed his dick against my lips and circled my clit with his thumb. I felt all his manual dexterity come into play as he fingered me. All those scales and grip exercises hadn’t been in vain. Vance was amazing with his hands. With one knuckle-deep finger, he massaged my G-spot, while with the other, he stimulated my clit. As waves of pleasure coursed through my body, I realized he was better at getting me off than I was at masturbating.
As if reading my thoughts, he withdrew his hand from my entrance. He turned me around, pulled my outer labia apart and directed a warm jet of water from the showerhead to my clit while he licked and suckled my breasts. I’d never felt my whole body so alive from sensation. I was on the brink of orgasm, yet I ached for him.
“Please, Vance,” I whimpered. “I need you.”
That was all the encouragement he required. Vance sank his member into my slick, eager cunt, and we both shuddered with pleasure as his shaft hit home. With each thrust, he angled himself so his thick member brushed the side of my clit. Between that and the steady stream of warm water still angled at me, I could hardly hold off the orgasm. My vaginal muscles clenched around Vance’s cock, milking the entire length.
“God, woman…that feels incredible,” he said.
Our breath grew heavy as the pace quickened—thrusting and writhing, and pulled him deeper inside me, determined to feel every inch as the pleasure coiled inside me. I knew I couldn’t contain myself much longer. Finally, the orgasm intensified and crested, and I coasted on an uncontrollable wave of pleasure as I came on Vance’s dick.
Moments later, his own orgasm broke, pleasure tipping his head back and driving his cock deep, deep into me. We’d come at almost exactly the same time—something I thought only happened in movies. It might have been simultaneous, but I got the sense that Vance had been waiting for me to orgasm first.
“You’re incredible, Vance,” I said. “I’ve never been fucked like that.”
“That’s too bad,” he said, sinking down into the tub and filling it with a generous dollop of bubble bath. “You should be fucked, and often. And by someone who knows how.”
“Did you just quote Gone with the Wind?”
“Well, paraphrased,” he shrugged. “We are in the deep south, in case you didn’t notice.”
I laughed and reclined in the fragrant waters. I was falling hard for this man. But instead of saying anything, I just sang the first few notes of Tara’s Theme.
Vance chuckled and hummed the next four notes. And even in post-coital bliss, surging with oxytocin and all those other feel-good chemicals, I couldn’t notice something off about his pitch.
Everything I’d observed over the past few days showed me that the rock star couldn’t sing. But how was that possible? He’d built an empire from his live shows. Surely autotu
ne and lip syncing couldn’t be covering up a complete lack of singing ability—could they?
Vance must have noticed that I stiffened, because he became quiet, and kissed me softly on the neck. I returned his affection and didn’t let on that I was curious. But I couldn’t help but wonder about his voice.
I’d been hiding my past from Vance. Was it possible that he was hiding something too?
Chapter 18
Vance
Andrea stepped out of the whirlpool tub, foam clinging to her supple, curvy body like she was Venus de Milo. Normally, that would have been enough to excite me, but I was spent, and blissfully so. I just watched with admiration as Andrea toweled her hair, applied scented lotion and performed all the other little rituals of femininity that I so rarely got the chance to observe.
“Hey, you,” I said
“Hey, yourself,” she said, stepping into her panties. “What do you say we jam together in the studio? Just for fun.”
I sighed and pulled the bath drain. The warm, fragrant water drained away. What should I tell her? I was all out of excuses. And looking at her reflection in the mirror—the questioning expression in her eyes, the hard set of her jaw—I got the sense that Andrea knew that.
She’d been brave enough to share her truth with me. And here I was, older, physically stronger, richer—a celebrity, for Christ’s sake. Yet even with all those defenses, I was afraid to come clean with Andea.
She was so much tougher than me. She deserved the truth.
“Andrea, I have to tell you something,” I said, stepping out of the tub and standing before her bared and exposed. “Darrel is the voice of Brothers Three.”
“Darrel?” She looked confused, but the realization slowly dawned on her.
“I lip sync at shows. He does all the studio recordings. I can’t sing, Andrea. I used to be able to, but I lost that ability the same way I lost my Southern accent. It got mocked…well, actually, beaten out of me.”
She was quiet, expressionless. She hadn’t thrown anything or called me names. That had to be a good sign, right?
“Why don’t we go sit down and have some of that wine?” she suggested.
“Great idea,” I said. A drink never sounded so good.
We sat on the porch, fireflies flickered, a small flame flickering in the fire pot. Andrea stretched her legs across my lap while I rubbed her feet and told her about my and Darrel’s childhood.
“After I got out of the hospital, I could never sing again,” I admitted. “But Darrel continued, just not in public any more, where he could get hurt. He quit the choir, obviously. And we started playing together, me on piano, guitar, or whatever other instrument was handy. Darrel on drums. And eventually, we started busking in the French Quarter. People tossed us a few dollars here and there, enough to pay for food and nights at the homeless shelter. But it wasn’t until Kent found us that we really unlocked our true potential.”
I described to Andrea how Kent had brought us into the studio, put us up in the guest house behind his French Quarter mansion, and eventually coaxed Darrel into sharing his angelic voice. But with his eye for talent, Kent knew Darrel could never be the frontman of Brothers Three.
I had the rock-star swagger, sexuality and stage presence. Darrel was happier hiding behind a drum kit. Between the two of us, we had the talent, looks and raw charisma to go all the way to the top of the charts.
And we got there, thanks to Kent.
But when Darrel started struggling with the pressures of stardom, his drug and alcohol use spiraling out of control, we hadn’t been able to stay on top.
“Which is why you brought me on board,” Andrea said.
“I thought the Craigslist ad was a real shot in the dark,” I said. “But it did what Kent hoped it would—it flushed out a wellspring of talent in the heart of Louisiana’s bayous and shipyards. It brought you here, Andrea. Your songs have soul, grit and heart—everything that Brothers Three is about.”
Andrea paused, considering everything that I’d told her. I could tell she didn’t want to dwell on herself. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? About the fact that you can’t sing.”
“Andrea, do you know how sensitive this information is? It could actually ruin my career. And not just mine. Darrel’s, Kent’s, and everyone who draws a salary from Brothers Three—which at this point is a lot of people. I had to make sure I could trust you.”
“And do you now?”
“Trust you? Of course, Andrea. Don’t you trust me?”
“Yes,” she said. But she didn’t meet my gaze, and she didn’t squeeze my hand back. I could tell she wasn’t completely sure. And maybe it made sense for her to be on guard. After all, look at what had happened the last time she collaborated musically with a man.
“Andrea, I’ve been thinking,” I continued. “You have an amazing voice. And I love working with you. We have amazing chemistry. What if you joined Brothers Three as a backup singer? You and Darrel could record together in the studio, we could tour together…”
She shook her head. “That’s not an option, Darrel. I came to you with these songs because I need money to start over.”
“You mean…”
“Move to another city, a big one where Jonathan can’t find me. Change my name. Start a new life. Do you think I’d ever be free of him if I lived in the spotlight? I can just see it now—him showing up at every gig, sitting in the front row.”
“Andrea, we have plenty of money and security to keep him away.”
She brushed tears away from her eyes. “Listen, it sounds nice. It really does. But we need to stick with the plan. You buy my songs. I disappear. I keep your secret. And you keep mine.”
“I never knew disappearing was part of your plan.”
“It was the entire plan,” she said, eyes hard, shining with a fierce, determined light I’d never seen. “I just escaped from being under one man’s thumb. What makes you think I’d so easily go back under another’s?”
As much as her words wounded me, as much as I wanted to protest that I had nothing in common with Jonathan, I could understand where Andrea was coming from. No wonder she hadn’t wanted to get physically involved. It would only make it harder for her to leave.
But I couldn’t accept that. I didn’t want to imagine life without her, when I’d only started to explore our relationship, which was satisfying on every level.
“So you’re just going to keep running away,” I said. “Hiding your past, pretending to be someone you aren’t.”
“That’s the plan,” she said, holding her chin up high. As much as it pained me, I admired her pride. More than that, I could relate to it. In more ways than one. I understood her need for dominance.
But I also understood how that same need could actually hold her back.
“You’ve been on the run for months,” I said. “How’s that been working out for you?”
“Just fine,” she said icily.
“Really? Because from what I can tell, you’re basically homeless and broke. It doesn’t seem like you’ve gotten anywhere.”
Andrea stood up and chucked her wine glass into the forest. “Call Kent,” she said. “I’m ready to go back to New Orleans.”
Chapter 19
Andrea
Anger swirled over me, clouding my vision just like black smoke. I wanted to smash another glass, kick over the fire pit, slap Vance across his handsome, hurting face. How dare he imply that I was a bum, a go-nowhere hack?
But as I watched him reach for his cell phone and pull up Kent’s contact with a grimace, a tiny voice inside me said, Andrea. It’s not Vance that you’re angry with.
I sighed. I knew I had unresolved issues stemming from Jonathan. And they weren’t all of the emotional variety. Some were very legal.
I hadn’t been honest with Kent and Vance. The songs I sold them weren’t mine—not completely. I’d co-written them with Jonathan.
Our collaboration started when he heard me sing. Recognizing my talents, Jonatha
n worked out an arrangement. He made the beats, I created the melody and lyrics, and then we wrote out the basslines and other sections around them. Neither of us could have written those songs without the other. I needed Jonathan’s production capabilities and gear, and he needed my songwriting abilities and voice. We’d never had a chance to capitalize on our music, though, because Jonathan got distracted by cooking and selling meth.
“Not just any meth, baby,” he’d said. “Pink Champagne! The Rolls Royce of meth!”
When the fire started, I didn’t run just because I could. I ran because I saw an opportunity to sell our music. Jonathan would assume that the laptop was destroyed in that fire—along with our songs. I knew, in that instant, that I could steal the laptop that held the masters, hide out in the nearest big city and sell them. The songs were solid. Someone would pay good money for them.
I just didn’t realize that someone would turn out to be the manager for one of the biggest rock bands in the country. Even though I’d be making much, much more money than I expected—possibly enough to set me up for life—I’d also be exposed as a fraud. The second Jonathan heard those songs on the radio, he’d take my ass to court.
I should have told Vance the truth—that the songs weren’t completely mine. Instead, I’d chosen my usual modus operandi and pushed him away.
“Hey Kent?” Vance said, his back turned toward me. “Wait, you’re already on your way to pick us up? What do you mean, good and bad news?”
I couldn’t hear what Kent said, but it was enough to put a smile on Vance’s face. “Wow, that is good news! That’s amazing! So what’s the bad news?”
Vance’s expression was unreadable. He stalked away, into the woods and well out of earshot. He was gone for about twenty minutes. When he returned, I wanted to ask him about the good news, but Vance didn’t seem to want to talk.
Rifted Rock: Secrets of a rock star series Page 6