by Emme Rollins
“Aw,” Jack said, his hands turning the wheel down the street towards his apartment. “Why?”
“Why?” Trixie looked at him meaningfully. “Because it was the dumbest song I’ve ever written and I hate it, that’s why.”
“I listen to it every night,” Jack said.
“Shut up.”
“Every. Night. On repeat. As I cry myself to sleep.” He pouted like a puppy dog and Trixie let out a loud sigh.
“Come on, honey,” Jack said, pulling into his parking spot. He waggled his eyebrows. “Let’s go up to my place.”
If Jack had cleaned the apartment since the last time Trixie had been there seven months ago, it didn’t show. Plates of food spilled out of the overfull sinks, and the vinyl tiles of the entryway were sticky with some unknown substance. The kitchen table couldn’t be seen from under the piles of bills and junk mail covering it.
Walking into the living room, Trixie tripped over a trash bag full of empty soda cans.
“I’m gonna recycle those soon,” Jack said.
“You really didn’t have to clean up for me,” Trixie said.
“Hey! The bedroom is neat.”
“I’m sure it is.”
“Let me show you,” Jack said, sweeping Trixie into his arms. She let out a yelp but acquiesced. That was what she was here for, wasn’t she?
He tossed her down on the bed, and for a moment she thought that tonight would be different, more intense than she remembered, more heated. His hands moved over her clothes, sloppy and kneading.
“Ohhh,” she moaned, trying to encourage him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, pulling away. She pulled him back into a deep kiss, her tongue thrusting into his mouth greedily.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I want you to take me.”
Jack renewed his petting with a reinvigorated fervor. As he lay beside her, kissing her with gusto, she realized that he was waiting for her to make the next move. As always. It didn’t matter. She needed to relieve the ache inside of her. She sat up and pulled her dress off, and Jack followed suit, his shirt falling crumpled to the floor. He switched off the light so that the only hint of brightness came from the crack of the door out in the living room.
A sharp stab of frustration lanced through Trixie’s body. Why? Why did it always have to be dark? Always like this, with only a sliver of light playing over her body. She loved her body, loved the curves that led from her arms down to her hips. She loved the roundness of her ass when she craned her neck to peer over her shoulder into the mirror. Sometimes she would dance naked in the morning to the slow jazz songs that echoed through her body. Jazz was perfection, especially in the early hours when nobody else was awake in the world but her. Swaying in the reflection, she would wave her arms, swing her hips from side to side and pretend that she was a dancer in a burlesque troupe.
Now Jack moved in the darkness next to her, placing his hand on her chest, and she wished she could see his hand cupping the fullness of her breast, the tender soft skin and the faint border of darkness that separated her nipple from the skin around it. But no, no, it was always dark with him. If he was insecure about his own body, he never admitted it. He just preferred it this way, he said.
Fine. There was one positive aspect to the darkness, one benefit she found now that she had never known before. When Jack’s hand moved over her, she could pretend that it was someone else’s. She could pretend that she was spending the night with anybody, fantasize about any face in the dark of Jack’s room.
And there was only one person she wanted to spend the night with.
Unbidden, Asher’s face rose into her mind. She tried to push it aside but he kept returning. His bare chest, a sheen of sweat from skating.
Jack’s hands turned into his hands, the long fingers making their way across her body, hesitating. She grasped his arm and pulled him close. She could feel his hardness against her. Asher’s hardness. Asher’s body against hers. If she closed her eyes the fantasy became real. She moaned. Her hands scrabbled down, stroked his shaft, tugged anxiously at the fabric.
Jack rolled back, letting her take control. She shoved down his boxers and opened the bedside drawer where he kept the condoms as she slid her hand around his cock. She bit her lip and straddled him. Straddling Asher. She was already wet, ready, sliding across him and then down, impaling herself slowly. Asher. She let her imagination run unleashed into the wild darkness.
“Ahh,” she said, rocking herself forward. She was already hot with booze and lust and her skin felt damp with perspiration. Leaning forward now, rocking faster, she ran her fingers through his hair, tugging his head backwards until he grunted.
Cock straining, he began to move under her, and every slight motion of his hips turned her wild with desire. She ground herself onto him, the need for satisfaction growing and growing until she felt she would burst. With every upward thrust she moved back, forcing him deeper into her. There was only one image that seared itself into her brain, her eyes clenched shut as she worked her way towards ecstasy. She imagined him as he was in the skate park, grasping her chin and pulling her in for a kiss.
Asher.
In a flash she remembered the pressure of his lips against hers, and the memory tore through her body at the speed of light. She screamed her way over the edge of orgasm. Limbs thrashing hard against the body underneath her, she gasped for breath as the explosion of nerves reverberated through her body. She heard, very faintly, the groan of Jack coming along with her, but the roar in her ears blocked out most of the sound.
Release. Finally.
“I needed that,” she sighed, falling over onto her side. Beside her Jack was silent.
Suddenly timid, she placed a hand on Jack’s shoulder. She could barely make out his profile in the dim light, but his heart beat loudly, his lips parted and breathing deep.
“Pretty intense,” Jack said finally. “Was it good for you?”
Trixie hesitated.
“It was good,” she said. It had been good, but inside of her something still twitched, ached for more. And the sex hadn’t been intense, not really. She could take it harder, rougher. She wanted something more…passionate. Sex that she didn’t have to guide herself. Sex that she couldn’t control.
“You have practice tomorrow morning?” Jack asked. The hint was obvious, and she took it.
“Yeah,” she said. She sat up on the side of the bed and began to pick up her clothes. “Thanks for coming to pick me up.”
“Do you need a ride back home?” Jack asked flatly, not moving to get dressed again.
“I’ll be fine taking the bus home,” Trixie said. She shrugged her dress over her shoulders, tugging it down and over her hips. Her panties were coldly damp and she tucked them in her purse. She would just have to be careful about how she crossed her legs on the bus. “The number six still stops at the corner?”
“Just like always,” Jack said.
Trixie leaned over and kissed him briefly on the lips, not letting the kiss linger for more than a moment before pulling back. When she opened the door the light was blinding. She turned back. Jack was splayed across the whole bed, the sheet rumpled over his lower half. His face was twisted in a frown.
Part of her remembered crawling into bed with him like this, the part that wanted to sleep next to him and be comforted. The other part of her wanted to run as far away as she could.
“Thanks for picking me up,” Trixie said. “Thanks for tonight.” She turned to go.
“He’s lucky,” Jack said.
Trixie felt the doorknob under her fingers, cold and metallic.
“Who’s lucky?” she asked. Her body was frozen but her head turned back to see Jack looking at her, his eyes bright in the half-lit room.
“The guy you were thinking about,” Jack said.
“What guy—”
“You almost said his name,” Jack said. “But then you didn’t. Come on, Trixie, I know you.”
It was true. Jack knew her as well
as anyone. And, more than anything, he knew why they would never work out as a couple.
“Thanks for tonight,” Trixie said again, softly.
“Anytime,” Jack said. He lay back against the pillow, closing his eyes. Trixie shut the door behind her, letting the doorknob slide away from her fingers. The momentary pleasure she’d been able to taste had turned bitter in her mouth. She locked the door behind her and left, walking down the familiar street to wait alone on the bench for the night bus. She hoped it would come soon.
Asher woke up alone.
“Fuck,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “What a fucking night.” Most guys would have been thrilled in his position. A threesome! With twins! Asher leaned his head back against the pillow and moaned. Looking down, he was unsurprised to see his dick saluting him back. Still horny as hell, as if he hadn’t fucked at all last night. He might as well not have. He felt disappointed about the sex, then guilty for feeling disappointed, when he really shouldn’t be. Ugh.
He spent five minutes in the shower beating off impatiently, trying not to think about Trixie’s hips when she had landed that backside tailslide. Shuffling his feet out the hotel and down the street, he landed at a coffeeshop. He didn’t even drink coffee.
“Uh, what’s good?” he asked the barista lamely. The teenage boy looked up at him with a greasy, acne-ridden face.
“You like sweet stuff?”
“Sure.”
“People like the caramel latte.” The kid couldn’t have been more bored if he tried, and Asher was reminded of the night before. Boring. So boring.
Shaking his head clear of the memory, he went over to wait at the pickup counter. The local reader had Wilder Side on the front cover. Asher picked it up, looking around as if to see if anybody would recognize him. They never did. A lean tall skater, he looked just the same as a million other guys in San Diego. Alex was always the one the girls recognized, or Julian.
Asher flipped to the article, which reviewed the last show they had played up in Los Angeles. The photo insert showed the band sitting down on a sand dune, looking out over the beach. Same photography as every other generic rock band out there today. Boring. Asher wondered idly if maybe everything just got more boring as you got older.
He turned the page and Trixie’s face stared out at him, her eyes glinting with a hidden sensuality. His mouth dropped open slightly, and he felt his whole body react to the image before realizing that they just had another article about Cheap Trix and their opening act. He ran his fingers across the page, touching her lips, feeling something inside of him stir. God, she was sexy.
“Fucking stop it, Asher,” he muttered to himself, throwing the open magazine face down on the counter. As he did, he noticed a concert schedule on the back. Wilder Side was listed for their shows for yesterday, and Cheap Trix alongside them. Anything for tonight? There wasn’t much to do before leaving town…
Trixie Carle.
He rubbed his eyes, thinking that he might just be too sleepy to be seeing the schedule right. That was her name, wasn’t it? He had looked it up to be sure that first night. Yeah, Trixie Carle. What was she doing playing by herself?
He ran his finger over to the venue listing.
“Caramel latte for Aster!”
“Close enough,” Asher said, picking up the hot drink. “Hey, do you know where the Breakers Lounge is?”
“Breaker’s Lounge?” The teenager paused for a second, and Asher swore that the kid had fallen asleep before he snapped alert. “Yeah. Downtown.”
“Thanks,” Asher said.
“Do I know you?” the kid asked him, one eye squinting in concentration. “You look familiar.”
“I get that a lot,” Asher said. He tossed a bill in the tip jar and turned away.
Breakers Lounge. Hm. He wanted to apologize for being such a doof about everything and try to make amends, even if she was being a bit overdramatic about it all. The way they had parted last night irritated him like the rough collar of a shirt that hadn’t been washed yet. At the very least, they shouldn’t be on hostile terms if they were going to tour together.
“Enough excuses,” he said to himself, shrugging off the worry. “Just go see her already.” Once the decision had been made, it was as though storm clouds had cleared from his mind. He whistled as he walked down the street, and didn’t taste the coffee at all.
The day passed quickly. Asher helped the rest of the band load up the tour bus with all of their equipment, and by the time their manager arrived, they had already packed up.
“Hey guys,” Pat said. A clipboard was pinned under one of his arms. “News.”
“More news? I don’t know if I can stand any more news,” Julian said.
“Good news or bad news?” Alex asked.
“Both,” Pat said. “First, the Europe tour. We have three new gigs in Italy. It’s gonna stretch the trip out by a week, but it’s worth it. Major stop in Rome. So make sure you check your schedules before we leave.”
“What’s the bad news?” Daniel asked, already looking worried.
“Bad news is we have to switch opening acts. Cheap Trix can’t make the new schedule, so we’re gonna have to find another opener.”
The band all spoke at once.
“You know who would be good?” Alex said. “That one band we played with in San Francisco.”
“That Journey ripoff?” Julian scoffed. “No way. How about Daniel’s old band?”
“They broke up,” Daniel said. “But we could probably get Ten-Seven to play with us.”
Asher couldn’t put together a sentence. Cheap Trix wasn’t opening for them anymore. That meant he could flirt with Trixie. That meant—
“How long before we leave for Europe?” Asher said, interrupting Pat.
“Week and a half,” Pat said. “Okay, calm down everyone. Any ideas you have, send them my way and we’ll check in with publicity to see what could work.”
The rest of the band members kept talking, throwing band names back and forth as ideas. Asher stood up.
“Hey, where you going?” Julian said. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Asher said. “Just…I have to go see someone.”
“Okay,” Julian said. “Catch you later.”
Evening came to San Diego, and Asher stood on the beach outside the Breakers Lounge watching surfers ride the last waves before dusk. The sound of the waves roared through his ears, even as the beach grew so dark that he couldn’t see where the ocean ended and the shore began. Behind him, he heard piano music start to play, drifting out from the open door of the lounge. The live sets must be starting, and the flyer hadn’t said when Trixie went onstage.
Walking into the small bar and lounge, he was nervous. He didn’t know why, only that his stomach was curling around inside of him just like the spiraling waves of the surf. He looked around. Antiqued wallpaper covered the walls of the lounge, and jazz records and old photographs were pinned up as decoration. A jazz lounge. Cool. He stuck his hands in his pockets and walked in farther, passing a few seated couples chatting amiably, half-full glasses of wine on the tables in front of them. The piano continued from out of the back of the lounge, the notes tripping bit by bit up the octaves until ending on a slow trill in a high register. The stage was farther back, behind a high divider wall that displayed vintage bottles of liquor. He passed through the entryway, pushing back the red velvet curtain doorway and looking up to where the music was coming from. His heart stopped in his chest.
Trixie stood on the low stage in front of a black grand piano where a tuxedoed man played under a dim yellow light, his fingers gracefully rolling the notes into the air. She wore a red dress that clung tightly to her figure, the beaded fringe of the hem tickling her mid-thigh. A spotlight illuminated her, and in her high red heels she looked regal, poised, like a princess. In the brightness her hair shone white. Her lipstick was fire engine red, her eyes lined black with smoky liner, and as she raised the microphone up to her face, she looked down shyly, pressing her l
ips together before opening up her lungs.
Her voice trembled low, purring, and she held each note one millisecond longer than she needed to, her breath rasping between syllables. The power in her singing filled the room, and everybody seated in the audience stared up, rapt with attention.
The devil take my soul
cause I want you
to do bad things to me.
Heaven take my heart
cause I’m ready
and nothing comes for free.
I want to be bad
Don’t want to be good
I want to be bad
If only you would—
Trixie looked up into the audience, and for a moment her eyes seemed to lock onto Asher’s. The spotlight shone too brightly, he knew, for her to be able to see out to the back of the room, but he still held his breath until she looked away. The words wafted out like smoke into the room, curling up and rolling over each other in a rumbling pitch.
Take me, take me
Don’t ever leave me
Take me, break me
Tell me you need me
Asher slipped into a booth at the back of the room, listening to the way Trixie’s voice accentuated the lyrics. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her, even when the waitress came to take his drink order. She swayed as she sung, her shoulders thrown back, her collarbone gently sloping, her cleavage in perfect soft curves peeking out of the front of the low-cut dress. When a strand of her wavy hair fell in front of her eyes, Asher wanted to reach out and tuck it back behind her ear. Mesmerized by the vision in front of him, he didn’t realize when the song ended until the audience began to clap. She sang for an hour, and Asher sat entranced for every second of it.
For her last song, she performed an old-fashioned jazz number about a lost love. Her voice broke in the middle of the word forever, and she turned her face up to the light, showing her eyes rimmed with tears. The audience sat hushed as she launched into the last high note of the song and held it, the piano chords fading long before her voice. The world seemed to freeze, and in the silence that followed the last note, Asher felt as though he would shatter, so fragile was the perfection of her voice. Then she smiled broadly, her red lips curving in a sweet arc, and the audience clapped and clapped as she took a bow and left the stage, disappearing into the back.