by Bargo, Holly
“Good. I’ll find them.”
Mick held Sonia’s hand, as much to show ownership as to keep her from getting lost in the chaos, as they walked in the direction the roadie pointed toward. The violin in its hard, protective case, was slung over his shoulder and rested against his back like a quiver full of arrows. Sonia looked around as they walked, not caring that she gawped like the veriest country bumpkin. Numerous busses and trucks emblazoned with famous names and logos studded the lot. The music festival was a pretty big deal, she realized.
Other people called greetings and waved to Mick, who returned their salutations with a grin until one woman dressed almost entirely in black leather approached. Her short hair was dyed black. Heavy black makeup ringed her eyes. Her lips and fingernails were painted black. A cigarette dangled from her mouth. Her eyes were bloodshot and her nostrils were reddened. Her black leather vest left a lot of ink on display, designs featuring drops of blood, skulls, pentagrams, and other dark and violent symbols. Sonia though she looked ghastly, but kept her opinion to herself.
“Hey, Mick, who’s the chickie?” the woman inquired between drags on the cigarette.
“Jet, this is Sonia, my wife,” Mick replied, not seeing a good way to avoid that confrontation.
“Oh, fuck, the tabloids actually got something right?” the woman sneered. She looked the other woman up and down and dismissed her. “Come to my bus after the show. We’ll have a good time.”
“No, thanks,” Mick replied.
“You cannot seriously expect me to believe that you married a fifties housewife and are happy about it,” Jet snarled. “Dump this publicity stunt and see me after the show.”
“Jet, I have a rule against hitting women, but I’m tempted to make an exception just for you,” Mick growled. “Don’t insult my wife and leave us be. Please.”
With that, he walked away, pulling Sonia along with him. She skipped a few steps to catch up.
“Who was that?” she demanded.
“That is Jet, of Jet Fueled. They’re a hardcore, head-banging metal band. I want you to stay away from them.”
She looked askance at her husband, suspecting that Mick and Jet had been lovers. He caught the direction of her thoughts and paused in his tracks. He took her other hand in his and said, “Sonia, yes, I slept with Jet. More than once because she was a fucking animal in the sack, especially when high. But there’s no affection between us. In my early twenties she got me hooked on drugs. I’ve been clean for six years now. Hell, I don’t even drink much anymore.”
He repeated his admonition to avoid them: “I want you to stay away from her and the rest of her band. They’re bad news. They’ll hurt you just for the pleasure of it.”
“You won’t—?”
“No,” he said firmly. “I will not ever touch her again. I haven’t touched her in years.”
Sonia sighed with relief. “Good. She’s creepy.”
They resumed walking.
“Wow, they got the old man himself out here,” Mick marveled, staring at a much older man who lounged outside a plainly painted bus and lazily strummed a guitar. His eyes were closed.
“Who?”
“Barry Gilverie.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Want to meet him?”
“Absolutely!”
“So do I,” Mick grinned. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”
They quietly approached the famous musician. A short distance away, they stopped and Mick slung the violin off his shoulder and removed it from its case. He listened to the music for a moment and, putting the fiddle under his chin, began to play along. The man’s mouth curled into a smile and his fingers deftly complicated the simple tune. Mick followed right along, adding his own flourishes.
The man opened his eyes, blinked, and complimented in his trademarked gravelly voice, “You’re good, kid.”
Mick lowered the violin and grinned. “I couldn’t resist, sir.”
The man snorted. “Sir. Don’t call me that.” He stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Barry. Nice to meet you, kid. Who’s the pretty girl with you?”
Sonia nearly gasped when the man, who looked a decade or so older than her father, leveled brilliant green eyes at her. His gaze was not avuncular. And she could not help but respond to the weird attraction he exuded.
“I’m Mick Hendriksen. This is my wife, Sonia. We’re thrilled to meet you.”
At the mention of “wife,” the man’s predatory gaze faded and Sonia unobtrusively breathed a sigh of relief.
“You’re with Iron Falcon,” Barry stated with a nod.
“Yes.”
Barry Gilverie nodded curtly. “You’re probably headed for sound check. I won’t keep you.”
Mick and Sonia acknowledged the dismissal and turned to leave, muttering “nice to meet yous” at him. But the famous musician hadn’t finished yet: “Keep an eye on your girl. Some folks around here are prowling for fresh meat.”
Mick, who hadn’t missed the interest in Gilverie’s gaze, nodded sharply. He put the violin back in its case and slung it over his shoulder.
“That was just a little creepy, too,” Sonia muttered as they walked toward the stage. She caught sight of the band; Jack waved at them. She continued to look around as they walked and commented, “People watching around here is like shopping at Walmart late at night.”
Mick snorted his amusement.
Privately, he supposed she had a point. The rock ‘n roll scene certainly attracted some odd ducks.
“Hey, guys, are we set up?” he asked as they drew close.
Jack looked admiringly at Sonia and smiled that trademarked, panty-dropping smile. She smiled back, eyes glinting with cynical resistance.
“Well, aren’t you pretty this evening?” he said.
“Thank you, Jack. You’re looking … er ...” she faltered for a suitable word that wouldn’t sound either patronizing or insulting.
“He’s pretty, too,” Angelo joked. “Even if he won’t admit it.”
The others laughed and the awkward moment passed.
“Hey, guys,” Mick said, “Help me keep an eye on Sonia tonight.”
Sonia bristled, wanting to protest that she was a big girl and could take care of herself. However, Barry Gilverie made her uncomfortable, and she did not know how many of the musicians running about would feel themselves entitled to sample whatever took their fancy.
Kristof raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.
“We met Barry Gilverie. I didn’t like the way he looked at Sonia,” Mick admitted, keeping his voice quiet. “And I don’t think anyone here would stand up against him if he decided to drag her off somewhere.”
“You’re assuming she’d be unwilling, kid,” said that distinctive voice from behind them.
Mick went very still. Sonia gasped, turned pale, and then turned around to face the world famous musician. His weirdly brilliant, green eyes glittered down at her. She swallowed hard, determinedly ignored the very strange attraction, and grabbed on to her courage with both hands.
“I would be unwilling, Mr. Gilverie,” she said, wanting to heave a sigh of relief because her voice was steady, not the breathy squeak she feared would come out.
The man nodded at her, a faint smile gracing his mouth. “Pity,” he said. “I would have enjoyed teaching you a few things.”
He touched the back of his fingers to her cheek in a light caress, then dropped his hand. With a nod to Iron Falcon, he walked away.
“I need to sit,” Sonia said faintly as her legs buckled. Jack, the only one who had both hands free, caught her. Angelo lunged for a chair and brought it over. Jack guided her to the chair and she sat, breathing deeply, fighting nausea. One of the alert roadies nearby raced over and offered a bottle of water and said, “Drink, before you upchuck.” She sipped at the water.
The roadie glanced up and watched the legendary musician walk toward the stage. He shook his head and said in awe, “I don’t believe I have ever seen any woman turn
him down. Ever.” He looked back at Iron Falcon. “And I’ve been on the road with him for the last thirty-six years.”
“It’s like he’s one of those TV or movie vampires or something and can compel someone just by looking into her eyes,” Kristof marveled.
“Man’s got charisma in spades, but doesn’t necessarily use his power for good, you know?” the roadie said.
Sonia shuddered. She handed the water back to the roadie and croaked, “Thanks.”
The roadie crouched down in front of her, knees creaking, and he put a hand on her knee. “Miss, I love Barry like a brother and admire him as a musician, but you stay away from him. He’s no good for a sweet girl like you.”
Having imparted his advice, he stood, gave the band members a friendly nod, then walked away so he could return to whatever it was that their little drama had interrupted.
A harried, middle aged woman with a table approached. She was flanked by two assistants. With cold, hard eyes, she looked over the group and said, “Iron Falcon, present. Boys, you’re eleventh in tonight’s lineup, after Triple-Z. The roster’s posted on the far wall. Don’t be late. We’ve got to keep the program moving.” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s a madhouse out there.” She glanced at Sonia, still sitting in the folding chair. “No groupies backstage, either.”
“That’s my wife, not a groupie,” Mick said calmly.
The woman nodded and instructed her assistants to make note to provide Iron Falcon with one spouse pass for backstage access.
“Any more spouses?” she asked, her voice clipped. At their negative response, she rattled off some instructions to her assistants. “Better do your sound check now,” she advised.
Having checked them off on her list of things to do, she moved on to find the next group. Her assistants trailed behind.
Keeping to her chair, Sonia watched as the band took to the stage and went through a sound check with practiced efficiency. The two bands following them tested their instruments against the speakers and other electronics to make sure everything worked as it should. Then Barry Gilverie took the stage. The event organizers had saved the biggest name for the last act to ensure attendees stayed—and bought food and drinks from the concessionaires. The legendary guitarist let loose with a ripple of sound instantly familiar and evocative of his best work. From beyond the long, heavy curtains shielding the stage from the crowd rose an enthusiastic cry of excitement from myriad throats. With a nod, the musician unplugged his guitar and left the stage.
“Welcome, Monterrey!” shouted a woman’s voice over the loudspeakers.
The crowd erupted into exciting screaming and cheering.
The announcer greeted the attendees again, quickly reviewed the safety regulations, cautioned attendees that all video recording and photographing of participating acts was strictly prohibited, and introduced the first band. The members of Iron Falcon stepped aside to let the fresh-faced, eager band walk onto the stage as the curtains were opened.
“Give a great welcome to Play Hard!” the announcer shouted.
The crowd cheered and clapped and whistled. Being new and relatively unknown, Play Hard had a short set list of three songs. Sonia thought they played well, but were a bit rough and unpolished. They also played covers from other artists, rather than their own music.
The evening progressed. Band after band took to the stage, the set lists growing longer as the performers increased in fame and popularity.
“Hello, everyone!” Mick roared into the microphone when Iron Falcon was called onstage. The audience response was deafening. “Do you read the tabloids?” He waited a second, then shouted, “Well, you should! I want to introduce you all to a very special guest of Iron Falcon … my brand new bride! Give her some love, folks!”
Mick extended his hand to Sonia, who walked toward him on shaking knees. When she reached him, he took her hand, drew her close, and kissed her passionately. The crowd went wild, even those women who had greeted the announcement with gasps of surprise, horror, and disappointment.
Dazzled by both the kiss, the deafening cheers, and the hot lights shining in her eyes, Sonia gave a little wave of her hand to acknowledge the raucous greeting.
“You’re set, sweetheart. Go take a seat and be ready when the set ends, because I’m going to fuck your brains out,” he whispered into her ear. She gasped and walked with as much dignity as she could back to her folding chair. Before she had disappeared behind the side curtains, Iron Falcon had launched into their latest chart topper.
She jerked, startled with a warm hand landed on her bare shoulder. She recognized that heavy ring on the forefinger and gulped nervously when she looked up. But Barry Gilverie did not look down or meet her gaze. He simply stood there, hand on her shoulder, until Iron Falcon’s set had finished their set. While he stood there, his hand possessively resting on her shoulder, other musicians and roadies walked past. Some sent covetous looks their way, others expressed some confusion. But no one else approached. Then he gave her shoulder a light squeeze and walked away.
She didn’t know what to make of that.
The five men practically vibrated with energy as they walked off the stage. Three of them had torn off their shirts and their bare torsos gleamed with sweat. Only Angelo and Jack remained fully clothed and their shirts clung like paint to their sweaty bodies. None of the men paused in their stride to pick up any of the panties or bras that had been thrown onto the stage. Janitors quickly swept the discarded undergarments aside with large brooms.
Mick grabbed Sonia’s hand and towed her along as the band walked toward their bus. Sonia could not help but notice that, despite the efforts of security, a crowd of mostly women had gathered near the band’s tour bus. They shouted and pleaded for autographs. Kristof’s hand cupped the back of one blonde’s neck and he leaned down to whisper in her ear. Her eyes widened and she nodded eagerly. His upper lip curled in an expression reminiscent of Elvis Presley as he gripped her arm and hauled her to the other side of the bus. Jack cut a girl from the herd. Within a minute, had her back plastered against the bus’ metal side and her legs wrapped around his waist as he pumped into her. Davis and Angelo showed slightly more restraint, finding their girls for the night and taking them inside the bus.
Mick handed her up into the truck. She reached over the drag the seatbelt across her body and fasten it as he crossed to the driver’s side.
“I can’t wait,” he growled, his voice guttural and rough as he unfastened his jeans and shoved them down his hips. He unbuckled the seatbelt and dragged her across the bench seat over his lap. “Please say you’re ready,” he growled.
Sonia felt the moisture gather along with heady excitement and she nodded.
“Good,” he grated and reached under her skirt to yank her panties down. With a minimum of fumbling she was open to him, straddling his lap. Sonia set her hands on his sweat-slick shoulders to balance herself as he lifted her up and lowered her onto his erection. He hissed as her heat enveloped him. Holding her hips in his strong grip, he drove upward, withdrew, and up again. He kept a fast, hard pace that had her grunting softly and him grunting loudly.
“Mick,” she called out, her voice thin with need.
“Cum on me, baby,” he grunted as his pubis slammed against her wet flesh and the distinct sounds of fornication filled the cab. He increased his pace, losing himself in the exquisite pleasure of her body. “Cum!”
And she did. With a long, drawn out groan, her body flooded his with a rush of clutching muscle and hot cream. He shouted as his released boiled up and over until he leaned his head back against the headrest and gulped air. Sonia leaned her forehead against his shoulder, her tongue darting out to taste him in tiny licks that made him shudder.
“It’s a good thing this truck has vinyl upholstery,” she murmured as she felt their combined fluids drip from her body.
Mick could not help but laugh weakly at her allusion to cleaning up their mess.
“Let’s
go home, Mick.”
He brought head forward and kissed her hair. With a gentleness not shown minutes ago, he lifted her off his lap and settled her back into the passenger seat. He started the vehicle as she buckled herself in, then closed her eyes when he reached over to stroke her beneath her skirt. Her legs fell open to accommodate him.
She climaxed twice more before they reached the cottage. They’d taken but one step inside the cottage when Mick picked her up, plastered her against the door, and drove himself into her body. After fucking her against the door, they managed to move a few feet where he bent her over the back of the sofa. Then he took her against a wall and again in the shower. And finally they fell into bed.
Sonia was sure she’d never be able to wear that dress again.
Much later as she lay half asleep in Mick’s arms, she wondered how he would cope with the after-concert adrenaline if she weren’t on tour with him. The obvious answer did not offer any reassurance.
Maybe she should decline the incredible opportunity to work in Chef Kilrook’s kitchen and accompany Mick on tour.
Chapter 9
Sonia’s brain stilled chewed on that thought when she finally woke late in the morning. Mick lay sprawled beside her, still sound asleep. She winced as she levered herself out of bed. Every muscle ached from the strenuous exertions of the night before. She walked slowly to the bathroom, every step causing twinges and drawing her attention to still swollen and ultra-sensitive tissues.
He’d been rough with her the previous day. She’d liked it, though, and wondered what that said about her. She continued to mull on that, too, as she luxuriated beneath the hot spray.
Mick snored softly as she dressed. After combing her wet hair and braiding it, she went to the kitchen to fix breakfast. She turned on the radio, found a station she liked, turned the volume down low, and listened absently as she worked. Mention of Iron Falcon caught her attention. She turned up the volume a little and focused on the deejay’s enthusiastic patter discussing the music festival. She smiled when interviews with festival attendees gushed excitedly over the unexpected addition of Iron Falcon to the previous evening’s program.