Slow Body Rock (Rockstar Romance)

by Nora Flite

  Unless I can get to her first. If I could curl my palm around her, her floating seeds, then it wouldn't matter. She could bloom, but I would catch her before she flitted away. Before she floated right into the arms of someone else.

  Remembering her flash of distress when I'd cornered her yesterday sent rickets down my body. I'd been so close to kissing her. I'd only resisted when I heard her argument. She was worried about the band?

  No, she's worried about herself.

  I wished for a way to make her see that taking the risk, diving into the deep pit of desire and decadence and sin with me, was worth it.

  There might not be a way. The seat beneath me suffered my clawed fingers. No. I'll find one.

  “Alright,” our driver shouted, “I'm pulling into the parking lot behind the Fillmore. Security should keep people out of the area, but it's pretty open, so just be aware.”

  Being mobbed didn't scare me. Twisting, I found Lola watching me. In a ripple of black hair, she stared out the window again. I don't want the fans or media to scare her. The rational part of me knew she needed to see it, to handle it on her own. Welcome to being a rockstar, I thought cynically.

  Colt and Porter joined us as the bus parked. It was early enough that I didn't expect many people to be crowding the venue. Eagerly I climbed from the bus, inhaling the fresh air.

  There were cars and tour buses all around; other bands and crew for the show. Small carts owned by the Fillmore were parked in the lot, the scent of bitter coffee and grease hitting me hard. Before I could follow after Porter and Colt to get something, Brenda appeared to block us. “Hey! You're awake, good. I need to go over everything for tonight.”

  “After.” Brushing by her, I stalked towards a muffin that had my name on it. “I need to eat.” Her hand grabbed my shoulder. For a second, I thought about shoving her aside. Instead, my feet paused on the cement. One eye looked at her. “Can I eat and talk? I'm pretty talented.”

  Brenda jammed a paper bag in my face. “I took the liberty of grabbing you guys some donuts. Now will you come with me?”

  The rest of my band crowded in, eager for the food. Colt inhaled deeply, pretending to be an animal. He even went so far as to bark a few times. “Tell me where you need me to stand, I'm all ears. And mouth. Fuck, just give me a donut, please.”

  Squeezing the bridge of my nose did little for my growing migraine. “Okay, okay. Lead on, Brenda.”

  She took us through a back door of the Fillmore. Traversing a tight hallway, she settled on a door that was plastered with a 'staff only' sign. There were people running all over, some with clipboards, others with headsets as they spoke softly.

  The show wasn't until five, but everyone was in gear to be prepared.

  Inside the room, Brenda put the bag on a table. Porter and Colt ripped it open immediately. “Have a seat, guys. I've got details to give out and need you all to listen.”

  Reaching for a fat, glossy Boston cream, I settled in and kicked up my feet. Brenda shot me a look, not commenting. The baked good was fucking delicious, sweet filling coating my tongue. I had it half finished before Lola even picked a simple glazed one for herself.

  We ate while Brenda covered the table in paperwork, finger jabbing as she spoke. “I've put you all up in the Ramada tonight. Here are your keycards, room info, the whole lot.” Passing out the hard chunks of plastic, she looked me in the eye. “We roll out tomorrow morning, the bus will stay here to keep the fans from mobbing the hotel. I'll send a car. If you need anything, just call.”

  The meaning in her voice wasn't lost on me. Glancing at Lola, I finished my donut. Don't worry, I won't let anyone mess with her tonight. There won't be a repeat of that.

  Porter grabbed another snack, crumbs spilling. “What time do we need to be here?”

  “You're on at seven, so be here by four the latest for sound check.” Her smile spread, fixed on Lola. “Here, take a look. These are being plastered all over the Fillmore website, out in our emails, our personal site, and every social media outlet we have our claws in.” She slid a thick folder across the table.

  Lola eyed it, uncertainty turning her pretty mouth into a knot. It only got worse when she opened the folder, revealing the glossy prints. “Oh, holy shit.”

  Holy shit indeed.

  The photos from yesterday were stunning. Lola was a vision, the blue of her eyes made even crisper by saturation. She was poised in front of the bus window, lashes lowered to make a canopy. Ruby lips quirked on one edge, a smile that contained too many things. Things I knew I'd need to taste to start understanding.

  Shifting in my chair, I fought down the surge of arousal. I would have to get a copy of those pictures.

  “Well,” Brenda prompted, “what do you think? Good, right?”

  Sliding her hand over the prints, Lola looked up. “It doesn't look anything like me.”

  Brenda rolled her eyes, pulling the folder back. “Sure it does! It's just doctored up some. That's normal, everyone does it.”

  Doubtful, Lola poked at the other half of her donut. “If you say so.”

  The rest of the meeting was a blur. I was too busy staring at the girl I was so addicted to. Letting Brenda ramble, I tuned out for the first time in my years of singing professionally. Normally, I was keen to hear the facts. It kept problems from happening.

  I hated problems.

  Now, I was twitching my boot-toe over my crossed ankles. Each movement matched my heart. It thumped to a tune, a song that had been forming for two days now. Lola was a lyric. I wanted to say her name over and over until I owned her like I did all of my music.

  Seeing her sulking did things to me I didn't like. I wanted all of her reactions to be caused by me, not discomfort from Brenda or being part of the band.

  When Brenda waved at us to leave, I shrugged out of my daze like it was a heavy jacket. Porter and Colt were talking, about what I didn't know.

  Our group started to head for the exit. Lola was dragging her feet, lost in thoughts more sodden than mine. Wishing to erase her gloom, an idea hit me. My fingers snapped out, curling firmly around her wrist. “I want to show you something.”

  Under my touch, her veins rippled. She froze on the spot. “What?”

  Porter and Colt turned back, expecting us to be following. I gave them a tiny nod. “Go ahead. I want to give Lola a look inside.”

  Understanding spread over them, bafflement turning into grins. “Sure,” Porter said. “We'll meet you at the hotel.” When they showed us their backs, I tugged Lola further into the hall.

  She came reluctantly, tension in her steps. “A look inside, why?”

  I want to see you smile. Of course I said no such thing. Setting my jaw, I led her deeper into the Fillmore. The halls were tunnels, we were explorers, and I knew where the treasure was.

  Together, we broke out into the main room of the building. I'd seen the stage before. When I was a child, my dad had slipped us into the upper levels to view the band even better. Now, I gazed upon a wide room, staff charging around as they organized wires and lights.

  Next to me, Lola gasped. The sound skipped right to my center. I still held her wrist, and for a heartbeat, I almost linked our fingers. Releasing her, I gestured with my head. “How's it look?”

  Those glossy lips curled; her answer was pure. “Beautiful.”

  No. It's your smile that's beautiful.

  I could have stayed there for hours.

  “I'm actually standing here.” Lola was speaking hushed. She, too, felt the moment in its entirety, and worried about shattering it. “Tonight I'll be playing music in front of thousands of people.”

  Peering at her hip, I watched her hands clench. “Does that scare you?”

  Lola met my gaze, a wildness in her blues that halted my breathing. “Of course it does. Aren't you scared?”

  I'm not scared of the music. Not even the crowd. Thinking to myself, I considered my reply. I was only scared of one thing lately. It wasn't something I was ready to admi
t to her.

  Not yet.

  “When I first played on a big stage,” I said slowly, “I was extremely afraid. That's normal.”

  “You're calling yourself normal?”

  Startled, I gaped down at Lola. The smile she wore was made from innocence and mystery. It took a concentrated effort not to curl my fingers into her thick hair, right there in front of the massive stage we'd soon perform on.

  Perform.

  This fucking girl made me want to put an entire new meaning to that word.

  Breaking the gravity between us, she looked at the large lights overhead. “It'll be packed in here, won't it?”

  My fingers hooked into my pockets. “The concert sold out the day it was announced.”

  “I wonder if Sean will watch me.” She spoke wistfully, like her question wasn't for me.

  How much I'd love to watch you from the crowd, too. “Barbed Fire is opening tonight. He should be able to see you from backstage, if he hangs around.” The thought was a squirming maggot in my belly. Though Lola and Brenda had done their best to convince me Sean Cooper held no bad feelings for me, I didn't want to see him up close. The guy might as well have been Johnny.

  Rubber scuffed on wood; the toe of her converse dug into the floor. “Lot of pressure on me.”

  Crinkling my nose, I tilted my head. “If it'd help, I can make sure he isn't back stage.”

  Cold distress filled her voice. “No no! I want him there. I just meant, you know, it's a big deal. Performing tonight is... fuck.” She clasped the side of her throat. “It means everything to me.”

  My chest ached, yearning to pull her against me. Not so long ago, I'd have said the same thing she had. Lola's existence, the way she'd come crashing into my life, had changed things. I want her to myself. She's the best fucking guitarist for our band, she fits right in, and I want to just take her away and hide her from the world. I didn't want the crowd to see her like I did.

  Greedy. That's what I was.

  “Can I ask you something?” she croaked, teeth tugging her lip. I'd have answered any question she had. At my quick nod, she pushed on. “Did any of your family come to your first real show?”

  I hadn't expected that. “My mother did.” The memory brought a sideways smile forward. “She came to all of them for awhile.” Even after she couldn't hear any longer, she came. If that bastard hadn't injured her so long ago, maybe she could still—no. I had no intention of cutting my heart open. Being vulnerable had its time and place. “Why, did you want to have your parents here? I'm sure Brenda could find a way to fly them out by tonight, if we tell her right now.”

  Lola was shaking her head, hair flipping, before I'd finished. “No, no. Don't worry about it. They wouldn't want—” Closing her mouth, she stopped herself.

  “What?” Hunching closer brought us level height. “Tell me, they wouldn't want to what? Fly?”

  Glassy, fogged, her eyes became frosted glass. There was a staleness that expressed a hurt so raw it left me concerned. “Yes. They hate flying. Can we go to the hotel? I'd like to clean up before tonight.”

  The change of subject wasn't lost on me. Lola was hiding something. “Sure. Follow me.” Straightening, I led her back down the hall. It was a silent walk. Heavy dread, a brooding too real, hung off of Lola like thick lace. What's wrong? Something about her parents, clearly, but...

  My plan had been to cheer the girl up by showing her the stage. Now, glancing at her as we broke into the early daylight, I had the feeling I'd lifted her up just to drag her back down.

  I just wished I knew what I'd done.

  ****

  We rode in a simple black car, tinted windows hiding us from the world. I'd even slid on a pair of shades to help protect my identity. It was a fast trip, the Ramada was up the street.

  Lola said nothing as we drove, her hands wrapped on her guitar case and bag. Each tap of her nail on the solid wood sent electric shocks up my neck. She was cloaked in something bleak. Even so, my body was plagued by my hunger for her. She's miserable, and I just want to bend her over in her seat and nibble her fat lower lip.

  Wiping my mouth to remove the thought, I cleared my throat.

  The car rolled in front of the hotel entrance. Kicking open my door, I glanced at Lola. “Come on, let's see how nice our rooms are.”

  A tiny smile from her was encouraging. “I don't remember the last time I slept in a hotel.”

  “You traveled with your brother,” I said, ignoring the driver as he tried to help me with my one bag. “What did you do then?”

  Her laugh was sharp, short. “Bus seats are comfortable enough in a pinch.”

  My bag felt heavy in my grip. I'd never had to crash on a bus seat. When I started Four and a Half Headstones, we went from driving our cars to local shows, to getting picked up by an agent in a mere few months. We'd had money, fancy tour buses, everything we needed for the shows on the road.

  It was a cold eye opener, realizing how blessed I'd been. I would never call myself entitled, but what would I do if Brenda ever suggested we sleep on a hard bus seat?

  And she's been doing that for... I don't even know how long.

  There was so much I didn't know about Lola Cooper.

  Strolling up to the front desk of the Ramada, I fought with a drilling sensation of doubt. If I knew so little about her, why the fuck was I so wrapped up in wanting her? What was drawing me to a girl who I'd only just met two days ago?

  Lola stood beside me, head level with my shoulder. From the tip of her nose, to the curve of her mouth, she was beautiful. It's possible I'm being shallow. Is it just a physical attraction?

  Like she felt me weighing her, Lola peeked upwards. Perfect sapphire depths peered at me, wide with her pure curiosity. It killed me and gave me life in the same moment.

  Those fucking eyes reassured me. A similarity existed between us, a thing I didn't truly grasp yet. The hurt and emotion boiling in her eyes reflected mine. I didn't need details to recognize it.

  There was more to this than something as petty as looks.

  “Can I help you?”

  Turning, I smiled at the woman behind the counter. She was cute, though exhaustion and a too-tight bun were doing her no favors. Digging out my keycard, I flashed it like it was money. “You can, in fact, help us. We have rooms here. I'm—”

  “Drezden Halifax,” she blurted, fingers covering her mouth. I smirked at her struggling to find the line between fan and professional. “Right! Your room is on the seventh floor. If you have your card, you can go right up.” Gesturing at the elevator, her cheeks went pink. It was endearing, but Lola's blush was far more enticing. “Um, do you need help with your luggage? I can—I mean, someone can—”

  Waving my hand, I gripped my bag. “Thanks, but I think we can handle these.” Facing my companion, a wave of surprise careened along my spine. Lola's elegant fingers were crushing the handle of her guitar case, turning them the color of ivory. Every line of her forehead told a message.

  Jealousy. Lola was jealous. That fact pleased me so much, I could have hugged her right there. I'd sensed it the other night when we were at the Griffin, too. How she'd fidgeted over my flirting with the waitress, a girl whose name I'd already forgotten.

  She could just be jealous that this woman recognized me, and not her. Don't get so excited yet. It was sobering, but it also brought another idea to mind. Standing tall, I slathered my best smile onto the girl behind the front desk. Her hazel eyes were glazed over, like the donuts that morning. “Actually, I could use help with something...” I squinted at her name tag. “Amy. If it isn't too much?”

  “Of course not!” Beaming wide, she smoothed her too-smooth scalp. “Just ask! I'd love to be of assistance.”

  I pointed at Lola's bag. “Could you carry up her luggage?” Amy's eyes followed my finger, excitement deflating. “She's tired from practicing all night on the bus. We've got a big show tonight, so I'd like to have her as rested as possible.”

  Uncertainty melded
into disbelief, then recognition. In an act of unprofessionalism, Amy whipped her phone out and started tapping it. I caught the bright colored screen, the web page for Four and a Half headstones loading up. “Oh my god! She's the new guitarist, isn't she?” The woman stared from Lola, to me, then back again. “You're Lola Cooper, the one replacing Johnny Muse! Oh god, I'm so sorry—I should have noticed!”

  Now Lola squirmed, shuffling her feet at the attention. “Oh, uh, it's fine. Don't worry about—”

  “I saw all the photos last night,” Amy rambled, the flash on her phone blinding us. “Everyone was talking about it, all over twitter and everything! I can't believe I'm meeting you.” Her eyes bugged from her skull. “Can I get your autograph!?”

  It was hard not to laugh. Lola was gawking at me, mentally begging me for help. If you lose it here, you'll faint tonight. The poor girl was going to have a heart attack.

  I planned to rescue her, to explain that Lola couldn't sign anything without permission from our manager, when the guitarist abruptly burst into a proud smile. “Sure, what would you like me to sign?”

  Saliva vanished from my throat.

  “Here,” Amy gushed, handing over a pamphlet for the Fillmore. “Just sign this, it's that or a information packet for the hotel.”

  Selfishly, I'd longed for Lola to feel nervous. But she's not, she's scribbling her name down and looking pleased as fuck. My scheme to save her from embarrassment at the hands of a hotel receptionist crumbled under their mutual giggles.

  Amy held the shiny paper high. “This is so great!” Grinning at me, she offered it my way, along with the pen. “Um, could you sign it too?”

  I was disappointed by the turn of events. Seeing Lola's name scrawled like swirling flowers on a breeze muted that. Is this her first signature ever? It was certainly the first as a member of my band. Amy had a piece of gold there, if anyone ever told her. I can add my name, share Lola's first signature.

  Taking the pen, I marked the pamphlet. The two names twisted near each other, not quite touching. It was an allegory for us.