Amped

by Teagan Kade

  I pull her into a kiss.

  She breaks away. “God, I needed that.”

  She lifts herself away, it’s like losing a limb.

  I lie there futilely trying to wrangle my cock back into my pants. My brain won’t work. My balls ache, I’m lightheaded, but I’ve never been happier.

  She lies beside me looking up at the sky, the tender cry of her climax still ringing in my ears

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  SELENA

  I’m bottled lightning as we walk back to the festival. The tingling continues to lick at the warm spot between my legs, my core still tight, but I feel reenergized, ready to face anything.

  A security guard walking the perimeter of the festival seems a little perplexed as to why we’re exiting the woods, but he simply nods when he sees our lanyards.

  “You okay?” asks Mat.

  I smile back and take his arm. “Never been better.”

  “Whatever happens, let’s promise ourselves we’re going to enjoy this, okay?”

  “Okay,” I reply, not simply saying the word but feeling it deep down in my bones.

  Clouds break above, sunlight beaming down around us.

  I look up. “Divine intervention.”

  Mat looks up too. “Just Dad showing us he’s here.”

  I place my hand on Mat’s chest. His heart’s still racing. “You don’t need to go looking for him in the clouds, you know.”

  He nods, smiling. “Good, because the idea of Mason Barton sitting up there with Saint Peter and a harp really isn’t working for me.”

  “I was wondering when you two were going to show up.”

  We both turn to find Dom standing there.

  Mat embraces him. “Man, am I pleased to see you. I thought you weren’t coming?”

  He turns his lip up. “A buddy of mine with a helicopter owed me.”

  “Oh, shit,” Mat remembers. “The band.”

  “Don’t worry,” says Dom. “They’re all here and they’re all excited about playing a venue bigger than the Bellhopper. Anyhow, I found someone you can talk to about your gear. Follow me.”

  We speak to the head of security, but our gear’s long gone. Thankfully, Mat bumps into a band backstage who recognize him. They get chatting and soon we’ve got ourselves what we need, the band’s more than happy to loan us their equipment for our slot, not that we need much.

  Arthur okays it, thankful it’s one less thing to worry about, confirms we’ll play main stage before Alice. The guy looks like he’s going to have an aneurysm the way he’s darting around the place. It’s not a job I envy. Musicians aren’t exactly the most punctual people on the planet.

  I think Dom might have had a word to Arthur to smooth things over, but if he did, he doesn’t mention it. That’s Dom for you.

  As the festival rolls on, we spend time in the wings watching the performers. One of my favorite bands, The Strokes, lays down a killer set, high-fiving us on the way out. I don’t know how we’re going to follow any of these acts.

  From time to time a journalist or presenter comes around. I’m happy to speak to them, as is Mat. Funnily enough, our trials and tribulations earlier in the day make for great anecdotes. They lap it up.

  Mat talks to the band, runs them through the lineup one final time. Dom’s MIA, but I’m sure he’s around. He wouldn’t miss this.

  Storm clouds wrinkle the sky again coming into the afternoon, but the acts keep coming, each better than the last, the momentum and energy building towards sundown when we’re lined up to play. I feel it inside me too, growing, a finger feathering the trigger. I’m excited to step onto that stage with Mat, finally ready to show the world what we’ve been working on.

  One set to go and I see Rick and Alice on the other side of the stage. There’s a sharp, sudden stab of fear seeing them there until I realize I’ve got nothing to worry about. In fact, they’re the ones who look out of place, standing there stiffly bopping to a band they’ve probably never even heard of. They ignore us, as I knew they would, but it’s still awkward.

  Mat notices it too, squeezing my hand.

  They leave shortly after, disappearing backstage to do god knows what before Alice goes on.

  When our time comes, only a single, tangerine slice of the sun is left on the horizon. The crowd goes wild when we step on stage.

  This is despite everything that was said about us in the media, despite Rick and Alice, and despite everything trying to keep us off this stage. It’s a damn good feeling.

  I see Mat feeding on it. He bounces across the stage with his loaner guitar readying the crowd. He’s in his element.

  For a second I have to check it’s not Mason up on stage with me.

  Like father like son.

  “Greetings, Magma!” Mat screams into the microphone, the crowd explodes on cue.

  I stand by his side cradling my mic in front of me, my feet together.

  I’m wearing a sequined dress one of the security guys dug up from lost and found. It actually fits me perfectly.

  “Give it up for Selena fucking Torres!” Mat bellows.

  He looks to me and winks. “Before we play, I want to let you know about a little petition we’ve got going.”

  Mat quickly runs through the petition to have his Mom released from Freedom House, the crowd showing their displeasure when he mentions the clinic’s true intentions. But as we both know, you can only hold a crowd’s attention for so long, so he wraps it up with a final call to action and jumps straight into one of the new songs we’ve been working on.

  He leans into the mic. “This one’s called Can’t Stop the Samurai.”

  A confused murmur runs through the crowd.

  He smiles that famous Barton grin. “Just fucking with you. This is Overdrive. Hope you like it.”

  It’s the perfect song to open with—full of energy, the crowd picking up on the chorus even though we’ve never played this song live before.

  It’s incredible. Mat and I are completely in sync, our Bellhopper recruits playing up a storm, the kick drum thudding through the stage floor. Mat’s foot taps in turn as he croons into the mic, making love to it like Mason used to.

  Our allocated hour passes by in what seems like seconds. I’m so caught up in the performance, in Mat, the crowd and stage seem to fall away until it’s just the two of us singing together in our makeshift studio at the White House, two crazy kids belting out their favorite songs without a care in the world.

  If every day with Mat is like this, I think. I never want it to end.

  It’s our last song. Mat looks at me. I know exactly what he’s thinking.

  He leans away from the mic. “What do you say?”

  “Let’s do it,” I nod. Fuck the consequences.

  Mat doesn’t announce it, but from the first chord of Better Days the crowd knows what’s coming. They sing every word with us, their voices swelling, transforming the song into something beautiful and transcendent. Mason would be so proud.

  Coming into the closing verse, Mat turns from the crowd and sings directly to me. I can’t stop the tears falling, the joy that swells inside me from boiling over. I don’t care who sees it. Let them. Let them see I’m human, that I’m not some paper-cut pop princess.

  I join Mat in the outro, our voices soaring.

  The final chord rings out.

  It’s done.

  Mat speaks to me, but I can’t hear him over the sound of the cheering and applause.

  “More. More. More,” the crowd chants, but the stage coordinator is tapping his watch.

  We say our thanks and bow, walking hand-in-hand—floating, rather—from the stage.

  When we’re out of the views, the bands that have gathered in the wing applaud us, cat-calling and whooping as Mat kisses me, lifting me high in his arms and spinning me around.

  A cap-clad Tyler Joseph from Twenty One Pilots stops to clap Mat on the shoulder. “Great fucking set, man.”

  “Thanks.” Matt replies.

&
nbsp; “And now,” comes an announcement from the stage. “Alice Garcia!”

  Mat and I look at each other. This is it, but even Alice can’t ruin my mood right now. In fact, I wish her the best.

  Mat puts his arm around my shoulders, turning us to face the stage.

  Alice spots us but looks back to the crowd instantly. The welcome is a little less warm than the one we received, but she seems to take it in stride, nodding for the backing track to kick in, a series of male dancers span out behind her in a vee.

  Here we go.

  Both Mat and I recognize the song immediately. She’s opens with a new, dance version of Better Days.

  Mat shakes his head, but I place a reaffirming hand on his chest. “It’s okay. We killed it. That’s all that matters, right?”

  He looks to me and smiles. “Right.”

  We watch Alice’s performance, Rick’s shadow lurking on the other side of the stage keeping a careful eye on proceedings, but something’s off. Up this close, what Alice is singing into the mic and what’s going out to the crowd are two different things.

  She wouldn’t. Surely the festival wouldn’t allow it.

  Mat picks up on it too. “What the hell?”

  The crowd, however, haven’t noticed yet. In fact, they seem to be getting into it, bouncing as one as she notches it up for the chorus.

  I notice a light rain’s falling, wet bands of it floating through the lighting.

  There’s a crack of thunder overhead, but you can barely hear it over the bass. Either way, the crowd couldn’t care less.

  And then it starts to falls apart.

  Another crack of thunder and the power goes.

  For a beat or two the stage is plunged into darkness. Someone screams in the crowd.

  When the power comes back up, however, when the backing track continues to play, Alice is left staring blankly at the mic, mute, while her voice continues to sings out through the speakers.

  It couldn’t be any clearer.

  She’s been singing on playback this entire time.

  The crowd’s quick to pick up on it.

  She realizes her mistake and starts to sing, but she’s been thrown off. She looks to where Rick is standing and taps her mic, pretending it’s all a big mistake, but when her mic goes ‘live’ and she starts to sing again, it’s out of sync with the playback.

  I see a bolt of lightning connect with something above and the lights flicker again. This time it’s the playback that cuts out, only Alice’s mic left, only her voice to carry her.

  Someone runs out from the opposite side of the stage and jumps behind the drum kit, picking up the beat.

  Mat could keep standing here, let her drown, but he’s better than that. He picks up a guitar and signals one of the techs to switch him on, running out onto the stage and starting to play.

  It’s a while before the master picks him up, but when it does the guitar rings through loud and true. With the beat and the chords, it should be all Alice needs, but she continues to falter.

  And then it dawns on me.

  She doesn’t know the words.

  The crowd starts to boo and hiss, even as Mat comes up to Alice’s side and feeds her the lyrics.

  She’s too lost.

  I feel sorry for her then, because she is talented, but she went about this the wrong way. Now she must suffer the consequences.

  She tries to sing the song by heart, but it’s hopeless. She clearly doesn’t know it and everyone has noticed.

  The crowd starts to chant again, but they’re not calling for Alice. They’re calling for Mat and me.

  I don’t know what to do. Mat looks over at me a little stunned, continuing to play as there’s another crackle of thunder above.

  The chant builds in volume until it’s drowning out Alice completely.

  I can see the fear on her face. There’s no way out of this.

  Finally, she starts to apologize into the mic. She reaches for it, but the stand falls over, feedback screeching out as she runs from the stage.

  I see Rick shaking his head. He doesn’t even try to stop her running backstage as the chant continues to build.

  Surprisingly, the drummer keeps the beat going on a loop, Mat continuing to strum. He calls for me, one hand leaving the fretboard to wave me over.

  On the far side of the stage I see a desperate Arthur doing the same, and although he’s all the way over there, I’m sure he’s mouthing ‘Please!’

  “Go,” people start to say behind me, other bands and acts who’ve gathered there. “Go.”

  I give in. Someone hands me a mic. I skip onto the stage.

  Another cheer goes up, Mat smiling wide.

  This is our song, Mason’s song. Why the hell shouldn’t we perform it?

  I start at the second verse, Mat joining along with the crowd.

  The rain falls harder, but nothing can dampen our spirits or those of the collected. If anything, it only makes things even more magical.

  When we finish, the cheer that follows is nothing short of rapturous. I look to the side of the stage, but both Rick and Alice are gone.

  Mat leans over to whisper in my ear. “Still feel like screaming your lungs out?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  MAT

  Alice’s failure to perform spread like wildfire over the coming days. Press outlets were bashing down our door for our take on it, but we decided to put up radio silence. We didn’t exactly owe them any favors after what they printed about Sel. Besides, Alice and Rick were doing a perfectly splendid job of digging their own graves without our intervention.

  As for our performance, we couldn’t have hoped for more. Thanks to public pressure, Rick was forced to give in and cede his claims to the song’s rights the next day. He had no choice. It was hard to claim Alice wrote the song when she didn’t even know the words. Sooner or later the RIAA would work out they were falsified. Dom was ready with the single lined up, over two-million downloads in the first week sending it platinum and burning up the Billboard charts.

  When the record came, I put it right up there on the den wall next to Can’t Stop the Samurai. I think Dad would have appreciated the joke.

  *

  Sel sits in bed scrolling through feeds on her cell. “If I read about one more girl yapping on about wanting to have your baby…”

  I take the cell from her hands. “Aren’t you sick of all this success?”

  “Sick?” she says. “I thought we were just getting started.”

  I take her by the hips and pull her on top of me, the shaft of my cock blunt against the crotch of her panties. “Oh, we are, Ms. Torres.”

  “And what do you see in our future, oh great Barton?”

  I place a finger on my chin. “Hmm, maybe a White House 2.0, a world tour 2.0, not to mention my second chance with you.”

  She lifts herself and draws the crotch of her panties aside. “Better get going then.”

  I smile and place myself into position. She drops. I slide deep inside her.

  I close my eyes and relish the sensation.

  Those who say being on stage is better than sex clearly haven’t slept with Selena Torres.

  *

  It came as no surprise to anyone Mom was released from Freedom House. A million signatures will do that. There’s even been talk about an investigation into the shady contractual practices these clinics are skirting the law with.

  Andrew even managed to claw back a good chuck of the royalties Rick was keeping from Selena thanks to a little-known loophole he found in her contract. With that and the advance from the new album we were able to buy back the White House and move Mom in. I think Sel and I enjoyed being masters of the place for a while, but it’s Mom’s home. We’ve got more than enough to find our own place in the world.

  Mom’s slowly adjusting back to everyday life. We hired a live-in nurse to make the transition easier, but we know it’s going to take some time. Still, the improvement we’ve seen even in the last week or two has b
een incredible. She even remembered Sel’s mom and brothers when they came around for a BBQ the other night—cue me trying not to burn the house down with my masterful grill skills. “Stick to your day job,” Sel joked when the sausages came out more charcoal than sausage.

  It’s a mild, rather lackluster day as the three of us stand before Dad’s grave. Sel pulls her sweater tight around herself against the wind that always seems so strong up here on the slope overlooking the Pacific. I’ll give Dad one thing. He picked a hell of a good to spot to sit out eternity.

  It’s Dad’s birthday today, so it seemed fitting we take the trip out here to pay our respects and let Dad share in our success. Mom and Sel leave while I crouch beside the headstone.

  I tell him about Sel, about his song. I tell him this is the woman I want to spend my life with. There’s no sudden updraft to signal his approval, but I know he’d give it. He loved Sel like his own daughter. He’d be proud to have her as a Barton.

  I call the others over and together, arm in arm, we sing the very song Dad never got to finish. Mom’s heard it so many times now she knows the words by heart, but they still affect her. Until today, I’d never seen her cry, but now she lets the tears flow freely. I choke them back myself, blaming hay fever when Sel pulls me in for a kiss.

  Together, we head back up to the road where Dom’s waiting with Ari and the car. He wanted to come today, paying his respects earlier so we could have time alone with Dad.

  “All ready?” he says.

  Mom and Sel slide into the back. Dom closes their door, leaving the two of us standing alone.

  “You’re not considering a career as a chauffeur anytime soon, are you?” I joke. “I think Ari’s looking to retire.”

  He laughs. “Driving your sorry ass around all day? I’d rather join Mason in the dirt there.”

  We both look towards his grave.

  “He’d be proud, Mat,” says Dom, eyes shifting to the ocean and its infinite blue.

  I nod. “I know. He was probably behind the whole power outage thing at the festival, hanging up there with his harp in the clouds having a grand ol’ time playing prankster.”

  Dom bites his lip. “Actually…”