Dream Lover

by Aubrey Wright

  “Guess you’re right,” he said.

  “Think about it,” I said. “Imagine if we hadn’t agreed to break up Lover Boys when we were on top. You wouldn’t be one of the biggest names in Hollywood, Theo wouldn’t be the most popular professor at ULCA, and Sean wouldn’t be selling out arenas as one of the biggest EKG producers in the world.”

  “EDM,” said Will.

  “ED-who?” I asked.

  “Not EKG,” said Will. “EDM. But something tells me you already knew that.”

  “Never was much into the computer music,” I said. “Too many beeps and boops. I’m a real instrument kind of guy.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Will. “I think it’ll be fun tonight. Like you said, we’re all so busy with our own stuff—how often do we even get to see each other anymore? When’s the last time I’ve seen you, even? I mean, like actually hung out—not talking to you for five minutes at a party or slamming back a quick beer before you run off to a court date.”

  “You mean before when you asked me to lend you my killer acting acumen?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Before that.”

  “Uh, that’s when you were filming Razor’s Edge IV, right?” I asked, referring to the action series that had put him on the map.

  “Try Razor’s Edge III,” he said. “Back in 2014.”

  “Shit,” I said. “No way it’s been that long.”

  “It’s been that long,” he said. “So I think we need to get together when we can, you know? Listen, I get letting the past stay in the past, and not keeping a thing around past its sell-by date, but the last thing I want is for us all to turn into strangers.”

  “That’d never happen,” I said. “We’re the bro crew—and the bro crew always sticks together.”

  “Then you’re down for us sticking together tonight?”

  “Damn,” I said. “You always had a way of talking me into shit, huh?”

  “Only the stuff I knew you wanted to do,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said, “like that five-pound-meatball challenge in Portland during that West Coast tour,” I said, fond memories of meat coming back.

  “Uh, sure,” he said. “Just like the meatball challenge.”

  “All right,” I said. “You talked me into it. But there’s one condition to me playing the show tonight.”

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “We make it the best one ever.”

  “I’m down with that,” he said, flashing me another trademark Will Gilles grin.

  I had to admit, I was right there with him.

  4

  PEPPER

  An hour later I was back at my shoebox-sized, too-expensive apartment in the ultra-hip Silver Lake district. It was a tiny pad with much less in the way of square footage than the homes George and I had been looking at to move into post-geek-marriage. But it was cozy—and more importantly, all mine. After the cosplay nuptial debacle, all I wanted was a little home to hole up in and pretend that the rest of the world didn’t exist, and that’s what I had at my apartment.

  And it wasn’t all bad. Sure, it was tiny enough that I could barely stand up straight in the bathroom (I’m a tall lady—what can I say?) and I had to put nearly everything I owned in storage. But the building itself was an ultra-modern condo complex, and the view of the neighborhood from my little balcony went a long way toward making the place feel bigger than it was. And I was right near one of the trendiest strips of Sunset Boulevard, which meant that I was up to my elbows in trendy coffee shops, funky bakeries, and enough knickknack stores to keep me good and busy.

  The hair-whiteningly embarrassing events of the afternoon were still fresh in my head. It was all so mortifying that I worried my face might end up getting stuck in some permanent wince. Even at that moment I knew the mental image of me licking my lips lasciviously and batting my eyelashes at some barely-out-of-his-teens Adonis was going to haunt me until the end of my days.

  So awful—not only did I make some of the most assuredly ridiculous fuck-me faces in the history of fuck-me faces, but they were all for nothing!

  As I stepped out of my flats and let my purse slide off my arm onto my pizza-tray-sized kitchen table, I found myself thinking about what must’ve been going through that kid’s head, how he had to have been wondering why some geriatric was making googly eyes at him.

  “You’re not old,” I said out loud as I pulled open my fridge and took out a can of sparkling lime water.

  “Seriously!” I said, continuing the conversation with no one but me. “Thirty-three’s not old. It’s experienced.”

  I cracked open the can of water and took a swig.

  “And seriously,” I said. “What the hell would I even do with a guy like that anyway?”

  Of course, right as I said the words my mind went wild with ideas of just what I could, in fact, get up to with a guy like that. A solid block of abs and pecs and that sexy fucking Adonis belt and—

  Ugh! My pussy tightened, and so did my grip, a soft crinkling sound from the lime La Croix sounding through the kitchenette.

  Were guys like that just not for me? I’d barely dated, and between George and the few guys I’d gotten involved with there wasn’t a six-pack between them. I was hardly the shallow type, but I’d always taken good care of my body, dang it. I swilled kale smoothies and ate keto or animal or carnivore or whatever to keep the fat at bay, and I was no stranger to Hard Bodies—my local gym.

  I hardly needed a man sculpted from granite, but geez, a little trying was all I’d hoped for. But men like that never seemed to enter my orbit. Or when they did, it was in situations like the oh-so-fun one I’d just been through.

  I finished the La Croix and tossed the can into the nearby stainless-steel garbage can. Right as I closed the lid my iPhone let out a muffled buzz from my purse on the other side of the kitchen/living room area. I took it out and gave it a look—it was a text from Shania that read, “Hope you’re getting ready…no excuses!”

  The concert. I’d gotten so wrapped up in my own head that I’d forgotten about the fact I was actually about to do something fun with my evening.

  Truth be told, part of me wanted to skip it. Slipping out of my clothes and into the bath, followed by a lazy evening in front of the TV with a cocktail or two sure did sound nice. But I knew there was no way I’d overcome the combined power of my three besties all trying to get me out. And as much as I hated to admit it, they were right about how much of a hermit I was turning into.

  And who knows? Maybe I’d have some honest-to-god fun. Thinking about the concert ahead I found myself slipping into a happy, nostalgic feeling, almost like bubbly buzz. Just the idea of going to see the Lover Boys again was bringing me back, making me feel like a teenager with my whole life ahead of me, without a care in the world but having a killer night with my best friends. No bills, no stress, no tiny apartments—just total fun.

  I stepped into my tiny bedroom, the early evening California sunlight pouring into the place. Once there, I shimmied out of my jeans and shirt and tossed them onto the bed. Wearing nothing but a mismatched set of bra and panties (who cared if they were mismatched if no one was going to see them, you know?) I stepped in front of my closet and opened the doors.

  Lover Boys. I couldn’t help but let a smile form on my lips at the thought of them. So corny, so cheesy, so over-the-top. But so much fun. They’d only been around for a few years, but it was more than long enough to crank out hit after hit that ended up being the soundtrack to more than one summer.

  And as I stood there considering the night ahead and trying to figure out what to wear, I caught sight of something on the very top shelf of my closet, the tippy-top that I needed to stand on my toes to reach.

  I was a little puzzled at what it might’ve been. But as I got closer I recognized it—it was a small pink and white shoebox I’d had for years and years, a little place where I’d kept all sorts of keepsakes from over the years. But I hadn’t looked in it in years—it always ended
up in my moving boxes to be stuffed in the back of one closet or another. I reached up and grabbed it, my fingers gripping the end. But, true to my insanely klutzy ways, I only managed to grab onto the edge before I wobbled on my toes and fell backward, yanking the box off the shelf and spilling the contents out onto the ground.

  “Ah, shit!” I yelled as I fell onto my butt.

  Once the disaster was over and I was on the ground, I took in the sight of what I’d spilled out. It was pictures, and lots of them. They were mostly from college, of me and Katy and some other friends, back before Shania joined our group and Sam and I reconnected once she’d moved to LA and we’d all become the fabulous foursome that I couldn’t imagine my life without.

  I flipped through the pictures, a big, dopey smile spreading across my face as I let the nostalgia wash over me. Some of the them were fifteen or so years old, back when people actually had photos that you could hold in your hand that weren’t all existing in space on some cloud or whatever.

  I came across a thick section of them, the shots of none other than a Lover Boys concert we’d gone to on the Sunset Strip way back when. It was before they’d made it big, in that brief window of time between the release of their first album and when they freaking blew up, becoming one of the, if not the, biggest band in the country. Until, that is, they stepped down right when they were on the top of their game, leaving poor fans like me hungry for more.

  The pictures had been taken from a very close vantage point. Memories rushed back into my mind as I remembered that night. But as I flipped through the shots of the band on stage, all of them in their hilariously cheesy glammed-up look complete with makeup and big hair and all the rest, all I could think about was the lead singer, Noah, and just how fucking hot he was.

  The man owned the stage—no other way to put it. He’d stalk it like a big, sexy lion, striding back and forth with the mic stand in his hand as he wailed out tunes in his ridiculously killer voice. And as I stared at one particular picture, one of him dressed in nothing but black boots, a vest with nothing underneath, and a pair of leather pants that most certainly showed off a VPN—Visible Penis Line for those not in the know—I felt that feeling return, the horned-up one I’d felt when ogling the life model at the class.

  Noah Mack dripped sex, raw and pure. My eyes moved over every inch of his body, and took in the sight of his shredded abs, his lean, toned arms, and his wild, sandy blond hair caught mid-whip in the picture. And what was more, at the moment I’d snapped the picture I’d just happened to catch him looking in my direction, that gorgeous, cocky smile on his face.

  More memories came back to me as I held the picture, my teeth sinking into my lower lip and pussy clenching like a fist and my nipples turning stiff under my bra. It sure as shit wasn’t the first time I’d felt that way looking at this picture. Many a killer orgasm had been blasted out to this shot, me pretending that the look he was giving to the camera was more, “Hey there, gorgeous. What’re you doing after the show?” and less, “Can these lunatic chicks go five minutes without snapping a picture in my freaking face? I’m trying to do my job here!”

  But it was fun to pretend. So, so fun to pretend. In fact, just sitting there in my bra and panties like that, Noah Mack himself staring back at me, was enough to make me want to hurry off to the shower and take a little extra time in my getting-ready process.

  So, that’s just what I did.

  Picture in hand, I glanced around the apartment as if someone might be spying on me or something silly like that. Then I hurried over to my nightstand and pulled out my trusty Hitachi Wand and rushed into the bathroom and turned on the hot water. I slipped out of my bra and panties, my pussy so wet that I could hardly think straight. After taking one last glance at the picture and burning it into my mind, I stepped into the shower and let the hot water pour over me.

  The moment I flicked on the wand and placed it between my legs, I knew that this kind of relaxation was just what I needed. My legs began to shake, and my hand shot out onto the shower wall, bracing me against the rock-god-inspired pleasure.

  My eyes closed, and soft moans slipped from my lips. With Noah Mack in mind, it was a trip down memory lane I was more than happy to take.

  I imagined being back, back at the moment the picture was taken. But instead of him glancing at me for that horrible fleeting moment, Noah instead gestured for me to come up on stage. I’d be coy about it at first, of course, putting my hands on my chest and my eyes going wide in a “who, little old me?” kind of way. But Noah would cut right through the bullshit and come over to me, grabbing my hand and yanking me onstage.

  It’d be a thrill, of course, Noah belting out the chorus to “Permission to Love,” his voice soaring into the freaking stratosphere. I’d be nervous, of course, but as I stood on stage dancing with him, the power of his voice and the rest of the music would strip away my inhibitions and I’d be grinding on Noah like I wanted him to fuck me right then and there in front of the hundreds of screaming fans.

  “Backstage,” he’d purr into my ear. “One hour. Be there.”

  I’d be flustered, convinced that I’d heard him wrong. But deep down I’d know he wanted me just as much as I wanted him. Which is to say, a freaking lot.

  Cut to an hour later in my little fantasy, and it was, sure enough, just me and Noah. We’d be backstage in his luxurious dressing room, him seated in his glam-rock getup with his ropy arms spread over the back of his couch. Hell, why not an amazing, sweeping view of LA at night through a window behind him?

  I flicked the power setting up one notch on my wand, knowing my fantasy was also about to get kicked up a level.

  Where to begin with a man like Noah Mack? So many things I’d want to do to him, so many things I’d want done to me.

  Hey, he was seated, the VPL calling out to me. Seemed like as good a place to start as any.

  I’d slink up to him, fantasy-me being far more graceful and seductive than real-life me. Still hard to believe that I’d been in this body for thirty-three years and still hadn’t mastered how to get around in it without banging into things and bumping my head, but alas.

  Focus! I told myself. You’re graceful in pretend-land, remember?

  I got back into it, most certainly not slamming my shin into the coffee table as I made my way over to Noah. Once in front of him, I’d place my hands on his shoulders, lean in, and let him get a good long look at my admittedly-very-nice tits before planting a kiss on his soft, pillowy lips.

  Back in real life I could already feel the stirrings of a major orgasm. Noah, figment of my imagination though he was, had a way of doing that to me. I couldn’t help but wonder what might actually happen if I did somehow meet him in person. “Hey! Nice to meet you! I’ve masturbated to you, like, a million times!”

  It’d get the point across—that’s for damn sure. Not exactly refined, however.

  Back to the much-preferable fantasyland. There I’d dropped down on my knees, my hands on his cool, smooth, dark purple leather pants.

  “You’ve seen me handle a mic all night,” he purred. “Now, let’s see how well you do it.”

  Real-life me was more than a little puzzled as to why I’d put such a cornball line into his mouth, but I was ready to roll with it.

  After undoing the front of his pants and peeling them down slowly, revealing a pair of leopard-print briefs—hey, no reason to think the glam look would stop on the clothes you can see, right?—I reached down and took hold of his thick, pulsing cock. A quick yank out would reveal that it was just as glorious as the VPN suggested, thick and long and dripping just for me.

  As I flicked the wand up one last notch, I found myself wondering just what a guy like Noah Mack’s cock would taste like. Like cotton candy and sex, no doubt. Just melt-in-your-mouth deliciousness.

  My lips were wrapped around his cock, Noah letting out sexy little moans and growls as I slid my mouth up and down his length, his sugary-sweet cum teasing my palate. After a little of this, we’
d both find ourselves wanting much, much more. He’d lift me up, my lips glistening and my eyes all wide and innocent, as if wondering what could possibly be on his mind next—as obvious as it’d be.

  Seconds later we’d be stripped down, our clothes tossed here and there in the dressing room, Noah bending me over and shoving his business into me, my lips spreading open and a shriek of pure delight bursting out of my lips as he filled me up.

  I couldn’t even imagine how good it’d feel to take a cock like Noah Mack’s. I imagined the pleasure being totally instantaneous, my velvety walls gripping his dick as I grabbed whatever was nearby to hold onto. Our fucking would ransack that place, the two of us trashing the room in total rock-star style as we cycled through all the positions—him drilling me from behind, me riding him like a damn mechanical bull, him on top of me with his sandy blond hair tickling my face.

  I couldn’t take it anymore. Between the wand and the fantasy, the orgasm I’d been holding back was ready to make its appearance. I moaned and squirmed in the shower, one hand holding the wand in place and the other squeezing my tits, my nipples still as solid as could be.

  The orgasm faded and I was soon left standing there in the shower, my legs on the verge of buckling beneath me.

  It had been just what I needed. I flicked off the toy, a scheming smile spreading on my lips.

  Didn’t know why, but I had a feeling it was going to be a hell of a night.

  5

  NOAH

  My stomach was doing flip-flops as we pulled up to the venue. More than a decade later, and I was still feeling that same thrill at the idea of getting on stage and rocking the shit out of the hundreds of people crowded out front of the Satellite, the trendy Silver Lake venue we’d booked for our secret show.

  And it looked like the secret show wasn’t such a secret any longer.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I slipped it out to see that it was a text from Will.