by Bargo, Holly
She suddenly looked like a hunted rabbit. But she swallowed her noodles and said, “I like the music you’ve been composing lately.”
Mick raised one eyebrow and Kris tilted his chair back as he laughed.
“Well, that puts us in our place,” Davis commented with a grin.
“What are we doing after the show?” Angelo asked when the laughter died down.
“I’m coming home to sleep with my wife,” Mick said. “I don’t care what you guys do.”
“You don’t want me at the concert?” Sonia asked, her voice small and her expression radiating hurt.
“I didn’t think you’d want to come,” he said softly.
“But, of course, I want to come. I want to support you. This is a big night for you.” Then her expression turned pensive and she said, “But maybe you don’t want me there.”
“Baby—”
“She’s playing you, hotshot,” Kris said.
Mick shot him a disgruntled glance and turned his attention back to his wife. “Sonia, if you want to come, you’re more than welcome. All you’ve got to do is let me know.”
She nodded. “I want to come.”
“Then you will,” he said firmly, thinking, Pun intended.
Davis tactfully steered the conversation to other topics. When they finished eating, the men helped with clearing the table, washing dishes, and tidying up the kitchen.
“You cooked, we’ll clean,” Jack said as he leaned over to kiss her cheek. “And, as good as you cook, it’s no hardship to clean up after you.”
“You’re sweet, Jack.”
“I’ll happily give you a taste,” he quipped.
“Quit flirting with my wife, jackass,” Mick growled.
“I know he’s not serious,” Sonia protested with a small smile. “He just wants me to cook for him.”
“When do you start your new job?” Angelo inquired to shift the conversation away from topics that would trigger Mick’s temper.
“Monday next week. I’m so excited!”
“Mick tells me that you’ll be working for that big-name chef … Kilrook, right?”
“Yes. He’s an absolute master in the kitchen. It’s really a privilege to work under him.”
“With him or for him, but not under him,” Davis corrected. “Let’s not put the poor man on Mick’s shit list before he’s even thought of doing anything wrong.”
Sonia looked a bit surprised and bewildered.
Davis patiently explained, “He’s a possessive kind of guy. Don’t touch his guitar, his violin, or his wife or he’ll break your face.”
“Mick, don’t you trust me?”
“Babe, I trust you. I don’t trust them.”
“Who’s ‘them’?”
“Any other man who isn’t me, your dad, or your brother.”
She walked up to him, jabbing a pointed finger into his sternum, and said, “Then listen up, buster. What’s good for the goose is good for the gander. Don’t screw up, because I find I’m pretty possessive myself.”
Mick’s hand wrapped around her fist and he drew it down and behind her so that her back arched a little and she was pressed against him. He leaned down to kiss her. Her eyes were glazed over with heady passion when he raised his head just enough to say, “Get out of here, guys. I need to fuck my wife.”
They left.
Mick pulled his unresisting wife to the bedroom where he proceeded to make sure she screamed his name after begging him with nearly incoherent words of “more” and “please” and “harder.”
That familiar excitement thrummed through him as he showered and dressed for that first performance. Luckily, the players of Iron Falcon didn’t adhere to a certain costume or dress code, so street clothes served just as well on stage. The only concessions he made to the performance was to secure his hair in a low ponytail so it wouldn’t interfere with playing the violin and the fingerless leather driving gloves that would protect his instruments from his sweaty palms. He rolled his shoulders and donned the iron falcon pendant.
He retreated to the kitchen for a quick swig of juice. Minutes later, Sonia joined him, wearing the blue sundress that made her eyes look as blue as a summer sky. He smiled at her, remembering the last time she had worn it: their first day in Vegas. “You’re beautiful,” he complimented her. “So beautiful.”
She smiled with joy and pleasure, then turned and presented her back to him. “Zip me up?”
He did so, pressing a chaste kiss to the nape of her neck.
“Ready?” he asked, holding out his hand.
She nodded and took it. “Ready.”
Sonia tried and failed to prevent herself from gaping at the throng of humanity that strolled along the famous Las Vegas strip at night.
“Whooeee!” Jack cried out. “Would you look at that!”
Everyone turned to look out the other side of the limousine. A small group of men and women wearing little more than body paint were openly dancing—at least Sonia thought they might be dancing—to flashing strobe lights and loud music with a heavy, throbbing beat that made the vehicle’s windows vibrate.
“Only in Vegas,” Kristof murmured.
The vehicle pulled around to the concert hall’s back entrance and the group walked unmolested into the building where they were met with a Caesar’s employee. He greeted them with an empty, professional smile and led them back to the green room, appointed with comfortable furniture and stocked with an impressive array of beverages.
“Catering will deliver trays of hors d’oeuvres shortly,” the concierge promised. He gestured to a door and added, “Dressing rooms and lavatories are through there.”
“Thank you,” Mick said politely. “Is there a place where my wife can sit backstage during the performance?”
“Wife?” the concierge asked with obvious surprise. He checked his tablet, flipping through the pages of the contract and banquet event orders. “I see nothing about a wife, just the usual boilerplate concerning admittance of guests backstage after the performance.”
“We were married early this month,” Mick explained, “long after the contract was executed. We’re not looking for a free hotel suite or anything, just somewhere where she can watch the performance without being mobbed.”
The concierge nodded and rapidly typed in new notes. “We have a private viewing area that’s currently unoccupied,” he said. He looked up and added, “It’s not free.”
Mick nodded and replied, “I’ll pay for the space rental.”
“If he can’t cover it, then I will,” Kristof added. The other four men each nodded, silently expressing their support.
The concierge nodded and glanced at his watch. “You’re on in thirty minutes. Yellow Ice is your opener. They’ll be taking the stage in five minutes.”
“Yellow Ice?” Angelo repeated under his breath, not recognizing the name.
“They’re a local band, sort of a tribute band for Metallica,” the concierge explained.
“Are they any good?” Davis inquired.
“Actually, they’re not bad. The name sucks, though,” the concierge added with a little grin.
“Yeah, it does. How’d they come up with that?” Angelo inquired, tilting his head in curiosity.
The concierge shrugged, easily admitting his ignorance. In the grand scheme of his world, the band’s unfortunate name wasn’t important. “Do you want to listen to them?” he asked, pointing toward a speaker on the wall.
“Not right now,” Jack answered. “Best not to before our own performance.”
The concierge nodded, typed something into his tablet, and directed his attention to Sonia. “Mrs. Hendriksen, I’ll return in twenty minutes to lead you to your box.”
She nodded and, with that, he left.
The five men of Iron Falcon found places in the room to lounge, outwardly displaying relaxation even as their discussion focused on technical aspects and any last minute adjustments to the set list. Sonia took a seat next to Mick. He took her han
d and held it with both of his, allowing him to play with her hand as he fidgeted.
“Water?” he offered her.
“No, thank you,” she replied, her lips curling into a soft smile.
“Kiss for luck?”
“Gladly,” she replied and leaned over to lightly brush his mouth against his. His big hand cupped the back of hers and he held her so he could deepen the kiss and plunder her mouth.
“Now I’m ready,” he said softly as he reluctantly released her.
Sonia pecked him on his lean cheek and leaned back to her original position, only then noticing the four other men watching with hungry expressions.
“Get your own women,” Mick growled only half-playfully. “This one’s mine.”
Sonia felt something of a yearning for the others, a sympathy perhaps. She rose, gently tugging her hand from Mick’s. She crossed the room and gave each of them a hug.
“I know you’ll be great out there,” she whispered to each as they wrapped their arms around her and she shared her confidence in their talent and music.
Hugs finished, she snagged a bottle of Perrier and returned to her seat beside Mick.
“That was kind of you,” complimented her in an undertone.
“They’re lonely,” she observed shrewdly. “And each wants the closeness that you and I have.”
“You’re mine.”
“I’m yours.”
“They can’t have you.”
“Not like you can.”
He frowned, not liking the inference that she could—and would—share herself, her goodness, and her kindness. But then, that was what he loved about her, right? That gentle and generous nature that softened his rough edges.
A knock at the door was immediately followed by the call of “Five minutes, gentlemen!” The five men of Iron Falcon rose to their feet and quietly left the room. The concierge met them in the corridor and introduced Sonia to the middle aged woman who stood beside him.
“Mrs. Hendriksen, this is Eleanor Bartle. She’ll guide you to your private box.”
Sonia smiled a greeting, which the woman returned, and followed her into the depths of the building. Mick stared after her.
“She’ll be fine,” Davis reassured him in a quiet voice.
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Get your mind on track, man. Focus,” Jack hissed as applause accompanied the dwindling strains of the opening act’s last tune. The four men of Lemon Ice and their female lead singer trotted offstage, breathing heavily, sweating profusely, and vibrating with adrenaline. They grinned as they passed the headliners, shouting out cheery greetings.
“Good crowd tonight, dude!” one of them commented.
Kristof raised one eyebrow. He rather thought the audience’s applause polite rather than enthusiastic. Well, they’d see what they could do to change that. Over the loudspeakers, an announcer shouted a welcome and called Iron Falcon to the stage. As usual, Davis went first, followed by Angelo and Kristof. Shrill screams rose from the crowd. Then Mick strutted onstage and the screams grew louder as he slung the guitar strap over his shoulder. Finally, Jack bounded onto the stage with his usual energy. Intimate apparel flew through the air, some landing on the stage.
Davis took up a quick beat, launching Jack’s greeting. He thanked everyone for attending and then introduced the band members. When he got to Mick, a woman shouted above the din, “I want to have your baby!”
His mouth stretching into a brilliant smile, Jack shouted into the microphone, “Ladies, you’ll have to settle for Davis, Angelo, Kris, or me.” The wild screaming and cheers got louder with each name he rattled off. “Because Mick Hendriksen got married!”
Applause thundered inside the auditorium. Mick glanced toward the private boxes, seeking a glimpse of tawny hair and light blue dress. Sonia caught his gaze and waved. He smiled and struck an edgy chord to signal the first song of the set, a hard, rocking number that had people dancing in their seats. Angelo’s wailing saxophone segued into the next song. As their charismatic spokesman, Jack kept up a witty patter between tunes, informing the audience about special influences and circumstances associated with each song.
The crowd of mostly teenagers to mature adults in their thirties cheered and clapped with unbridled enthusiasm. Lustful sighs could be heard when Mick set down his guitar and pulled out his violin. He drew the bow across the strings and the audience grew quiet.
“I know a violin isn’t quite what you’d expect in rock band, but it adds depth and piquancy,” he explained. “We’re introducing a few new numbers to you here tonight and I hope you’ll like them. We’ll be including them on our next album.”
He drew the bow across the strings again, launching into one of the new songs he’d written under the influence of affection for his wife. Angelo swapped out his saxophone for a wooden flute and Kris exchanged his bass guitar for an acoustic. Davis took up a soft beat on the drums and Jack’s voice shifted from edgy vocals to soft crooning as the lyrics poured from his mouth like cool, sweet wine.
They followed the soulful ballad with two high energy songs from their last album. Then another of the new songs drew sighs, particularly from the female contingent. They played for a solid two hours, sweat soaking their bodies, until they came to the last song.
“This one is for the love of my life, my wife, Sonia,” Mick said with an unaccustomed softness to his usual dangerous growl. Again he lift the violin to his chin. A slightly mournful ripple of notes from Angelo’s wooden flute floated on the air. Then the violin wept beautiful music that brought tears to myriad eyes and longing to many hearts. But the song wasn’t said; it held a delicate joy, a subtle spirituality at odds with the throbbing, sexual beat of the band’s usual music.
The crowd sat in absolute silence when the last notes faded. The five men of Iron Falcon bowed, the spotlights dimmed, and the curtain descended.
“”Wow,” the announcer commented somewhat breathlessly. “That was unexpected and totally incredible.” He paused to take a somewhat shaky breath, then continued: “Please give a hand to Iron Falcon. Long may they soar!”
The audience erupted in deafening applause and cheers with shouts of “Encore! Encore!”
Roadies rushed forward to clear the stage and pack away instruments as the five men walked back to the green room where fans with backstage passes eagerly waited. They cheered and called out to their favorite players and waved tickets and whatever else they had asking for autographs. Sonia stood several yards away, looking uncomfortable and nervous.
Mick split off from the group and made a beeline for her. The fans buzzed with speculation, not having noticed the woman standing quietly apart from them. He held his hand out to her and said, “For you, babe. It’s all for you now.”
The others entered the green room to avail themselves of the myriad beverages and snacks, needing to drown the after-concert jitters with carbohydrates and calories. Kris snagged one of the groupies and drew her down to his lap. She shrieked and laughed and wiggled her bottom against his crotch. With an utter lack of self-consciousness, he palmed one bouncing breast as he tilted an icy beer to his mouth. Talk quickly escalated into rowdy loudness and devolved into near frenzied carnality. Knowing how the after concert partying would go, Mick had already led Sonia away.
There were some aspects of the rock-and-roll lifestyle from which Mick wanted to protect her.
“You guys were absolutely incredible,” Sonia complimented with a brilliant smile as Mick drove them back to the condo. “I mean, you’re good when you’re practicing on the back patio, but on stage … wow, just wow. Not only is the music fantastic, but the energy you radiate, the sensuality. I’m in absolute awe.”
Still thrumming with energy, Mick grinned at her.
She grinned back at him. “I think I’m going to have to create a dish that pays homage to that experience. It’ll have hot peppers in it for sure.”
The car entered the garage. A minute later they were in the living room, pulling at
each other’s clothes. Unable to wait, Mick lifted Sonia and pressed her against the wall while he thrust up into her silky, wet heat.
Climax rushed upon them, giving them a short reprieve, just long enough to move to the shower for the next round. Rounds three and four took place in bed. Much later as Mick snored quietly beside her, Sonia wondered how he’d cope with the excess energy and sensuality that infused him after a performance when he went on tour. And she worried.
Chapter 12
Iron Falcon played every other night that week to a sold-out house each time. Caesar’s Entertainment Corporation used their considerable clout to schedule interviews with celebrity-focused magazines and television shows. Sonia immediately nixed a suggestion that such interviews be held in the new home she shared with Mick.
“No, our home is not a TV studio,” she said. “Caesars will have plenty of meeting rooms from which to choose.”
Kristof and Angelo raised their eyebrows in silent surprise at her adamancy. Jack attempted to persuade her to agree, but she would not be swayed.
In response to the media blitz, Jay traveled from his Los Angeles office to manage things before the band did something stupid. He accompanied them to every interview and badgered questions from journalists before the interviews so that the band members could prepare thoughtful answers devoid of profanity.
“This is supposed to be a candid interview,” one television journalist complained.
“Iron Falcon is my client and I’m not going to allow you to make them look like idiots just so you can boost your Nielsen ratings,” Jay responded in an acid tone as he scanned the list of questions and scratched through those he deemed inappropriate.
The journalist had the gall to look affronted.
“We want to get an interview with Mick’s wife,” the journalist said, flashing an unnaturally white smile.
“She’s off limits,” Jay replied.
“Maybe she’d like to be interviewed,” the journalist suggested.
“She doesn’t. Leave her be. She’s not interesting.”
“Of course, she is. People, especially Iron Falcon fans, want to know the woman who was fascinating enough to catch playboy Mick Hendriksen.”