Hard Rock Arrangement

by Ava Lore

  I couldn't say the same for the lead singer, Sonya Kyle. I'd seen pictures of her, but even in real life she was gorgeous. Her eyes were huge and green, and her cascade of red hair tumbled down past the middle of her back, streaked with blond and purple. She wore a tiny tank top and skinny jeans with a pair of platform flip-flops that probably required a signed waiver to wear. She paced back and forth in front of the keyboard, sucking down a cigarette and drinking a glass of clear liquid that I could only hope was water. She turned and shot me the most poisonous glare I had ever seen when I walked in, and it took all my self-control to not melt like a Nazi standing before the Arc of the Covenant.

  “Hello,” she said. “Nice to meet you.” It was astonishing how she managed to convey, with those few words, that she would prefer to toss me into a meat grinder rather than talk to me. I barely mustered a faint smile before she whirled away and lit another cigarette from the butt of the first one. “Are you ready, Kent?” she demanded. “You guys are late.”

  Kent didn't even answer her, and Manny just smiled as he sucked on his joint before blowing a huge cloud of smoke into the air above his head.

  “Welcome to our happy home,” Carter whispered, clapped me on my shoulder, and pushed past me to the chair where his guitar stood, waiting and ready. Then he paused and turned back to me, a grin on his face.

  “By the way, Mrs. Girlfriend,” he said, “could you get me a beer from the fridge upstairs in the loft?”

  Everyone in the room turned and stared at me. Except Kent, who just put his hand over his face. He was a jerk—the kind of sinfully hot asshole you fuck but never talk to again afterward, more fool me—but I was starting to feel rather sorry for him.

  “Mrs. Girlfriend?” Sonya demanded, her eyes narrowed. “What the hell...” She stopped as she raked her gaze over me again, this time far sharper and more exacting. She clearly didn't like what she saw. She whirled around. “What is this, Kent? You said no one but band members and staff at rehearsals. If Carter can bring his girlfriend—” Girlfriend was apparently synonymous with dingleberry collection in Sonya's mind, “—then why can't I bring my entourage? They're staff!”

  Manny giggled, and Sonya shot him a glare. He blew smoke at her. “They're staff, all right,” he said, then trailed off and looked confused.

  Carter sighed. “I think what Manny means to say is that your entourage is enormously gay, but he can't think of a good dick joke while he's stoned off his ass.”

  Manny laughed again. “Stones. Ass,” he said.

  Oh boy, I thought. This was terrifying. I looked to Kent for help, my eyes wide and pleading. Surely this was the best time to mention that I was, indeed, staff, and that I wasn't actually Carter's girlfriend. But when Kent dropped his hand and looked straight at me I had the curious premonition that this was where everything was going to jump the rails and never come back.

  I was right. Those blue-green eyes locked on mine, and Kent just gave a one-shouldered shrug. "She's a good influence on Carter," was all he said.

  A tiny squeak came from Carter, but it was lost in the sudden Sonya explosion. "Excuse me?" she said. "Excuse me? Are you saying we can now bring our one night stands with us to practice? What kind of influence is she? She sure as hell doesn't influence him to show up on time!"

  To my utter shock, Kent ignored her. I wanted to run over and shake him. What kind of a manager was he? And if he wasn't going to share the real nature of my relationship to Carter with the rest of the band, then why the hell was it written into the contract?

  This whole situation was absurd and stupid and everyone in this room was beyond fucking insane, including me. If I'd really wanted to get away from drama for a while, I could have chosen a far better career path to follow than Rock Star Babysitter.

  Sonya was starting to vibrate with rage, and Manny wasn't helping the situation by dissolving into a puddle of wheezing giggles. It was high school all over again, and I was suddenly blessed with uncommon insight as why the whole music biz had a reputation for being high as a kite on blow twenty-four seven.

  Still. I was here to do a job. I was getting paid for it, getting paid well. If I couldn't handle a drama queen, then what kind of babysitter would I be? Supernanny would be disappointed.

  I turned to Sonya and gave her my brightest smile. "Sorry, Sonya," I said loudly. My voice was so chipper you could have used it to mulch a garden. "I'm not a one-night-stand. I am Carter's girlfriend. And sweetie—" I turned to Carter and batted my lashes at him, "you know you shouldn't drink so early in the day. It's not good for you!"

  Once again the whole rehearsal room stopped and stared at me, and I had to struggle to meet their eyes. I hoped I came across as dumb and well-meaning, because if people think you are dumb and mean well then they tend to be nice to you. She can't help it, they think. She's just kind of dumb. It's the sort of thinking that kicks in when a puppy pees on the floor. I reached up and grabbed a lock of hair and began to play with it while showing off my pearly whites to the whole rehearsal room.

  Finally Sonya snorted. "Whatever," she said, turning away and pulling a chair over to the keyboard. "Let's get this shit over with. I'm meeting Jax and Art at eight."

  The tension in the room finally eased and the rest of the band set about setting up. It was pure torture, but I didn't even glance at Kent. Instead I kept my eyes on Carter the whole time. He looked mildly disappointed that I had refused to enable his alcohol habit, but that couldn't really be helped. He knew as well as I did that I was supposed to look after him.

  I watched as he pulled his guitar off its stand and looped the strap over his head before sitting down and plugging it into the amp next to his chair. The crackle of static scraped over my ears, and then, with a few deft plucks of his fingers, Carter made the guitar sing.

  Oh, I thought. Yes. This is music.

  A cascade of notes leaped from the strings, dancing through the wires to the amp, booming through the small room. At once Manny sat up in his chair, his whole body straightening, his drumsticks suddenly standing at the ready, poised to crash into the tight skins in front of him. At her seat in front of the keyboard, Sonya stubbed her cigarette out, took one last gulp of her drink—wincing and making me think that it certainly was not water at all—then settled her hands on the keys. With a ripple of her fingers, a sweet, unfamiliar melody flowed out.

  Then Kent switched his amplifier on, put his fingers on the strings of his bass, and plucked out a low, thrumming beat.

  My breath left me.

  The rhythm hummed and pulsed, resonating in my chest and stomach, rattling my heart in the cage of my ribs. I felt it, deep inside me, pounding through the soles of my feet where I stood. I felt the vibrations in the backs of my legs, shaking my bones. My mouth went dry and without thinking I sank to the floor, settling in to listen. There weren't any other chairs anyway, of course, but I didn't mind. With my ass on the carpet, I could feel the hard, driving rhythm Kent had found, and it took all my willpower to not lick my lips and close my eyes and squirm where I sat.

  Even so, his music hummed deep inside my core.

  Then the rest of the band joined in, and a quick jam session was on.

  Here's my confession: back in San Diego I'd lived with, and been the nominal girlfriend, of a guitarist in a band.

  I know, I know. The band had been much like this one, except with a quarter of the talent, none of the charisma, and approximately negative dollars to its name, but when I was a young college dropout I'd thought it was romantic or some stupid shit like that. I'd thought it was thrilling, that musicians were sensitive and spiritual. He'd asked me to rehearsal quite a few times, and I'd always gone, because I wanted to be a supportive girlfriend. Of course, the times when he didn't ask me he usually asked one of his fuckbuddies to go. It actually took a whole year for me to find out that most of the rest of the band didn't even know I was supposed to be his girlfriend. That I'd stuck around for three years after that... Well, maybe I really am as dumb as I loo
k.

  The point, of course, is that I've known band rehearsals. I've heard bands. I knew the "scene" as it were, and while I'd enjoyed The Lonely Kings, up until now I had thought they were like every other band out there—processed to shit and hyped far beyond their talent deserved.

  All that changed in that shitty little rehearsal studio in the crappier part of LA.

  The music crested and fell, ebbed and flowed like water. The beat of the drums, the falling riffs of the piano, the sliding melodies slipping through Carter's fingers—they swept up and over me, bearing me away, and underneath the swirl of noise was the thrum of Kent's bass, hard and driving. The vibrations thudded through the floor and I shifted where I sat next to the door, my back against the wall. The music, magnified by the amplifiers, rushed through me, crawling up the walls, radiating outward through the building. Overwhelmed, I closed my eyes, let my head fall back against the wall and allowed the music buffet me.

  It wasn't just a jam session—it was a little masterpiece, aching and longing, something dark curled up inside each of them clawing its way out through the notes. The drums weren't like drums at all, not really. They followed, tripped over the beat but somehow only danced around it, never losing it. The piano wailed, the notes rising and falling, a slow cry like a banshee above the pounding, almost as though the keyboard itself dreamed of being a violin. When Sonya began to sing a string of nonsense words into the microphone, her strong, classical voice rang out like an old bell, clear, but with a tarnished edge, as though with each peal it came closer and closer to cracking.

  And Carter... I knew the music world was abuzz about his guitar and songwriting abilities, and I enjoyed his songs, but I'd never really listened to his guitar as a separate entity from the group. Now that I did, I suddenly saw what everyone was so excited about. In his hands, the guitar truly did sing. No shredding, no showing off, no raw edges and fumbling fingers—just pure, smooth melody. I was so used to grime and grunge that for a moment it barely sounded like rock music. The hard edge needed seemed to be missing. Frowning, I lifted my head and watched Carter closely, studying his face.

  But it revealed nothing to me. That was the strange thing. Carter playing the guitar looked just like Carter talking or falling over drunk. It looked just like Carter walking or laughing. No concentration, no thought. As if he were meditating, as if the melody that he played were something he had played a hundred thousand times before, even though the rest of the band would occasionally stumble in the jam. There was none of that with Carter. He played guitar as though it were more natural to him than breathing.

  And Kent?

  I tried hard not to look at him. But I had to. The thrum of his beat pounded into me, and I felt my heart pumping in time with it.

  My eyes found his face.

  He was staring right back at me.

  I couldn't breathe. Couldn't even think. Our eyes locked across the room. While the others played their instruments, rising and falling with the music—I saw Sonya swaying in her seat from the corner of my eye, and over Kent's shoulder Manny bobbed and wove like a sword-wielding duelist, fighting with this drum set, dragging the beat from it—Kent kept his eyes on me. His dark brows were drawn down hard into a scowl so black it should have made me shiver, but his blue-green eyes burned bright enough to eclipse that darkness in his face.

  If guitar was as easy to Carter as breathing, then bass was as essential to Kent as fucking.

  He'd eschewed a chair and stood, the bass slung low across his body, lying against his crotch. Lean, sinewy muscles rippled beneath his inked skin as he strummed his driving beat, and if I kept my eyes on his, the swift strumming looked almost like the stroke of a man masturbating. The moment the thought crossed my mind I couldn't get it out of my head: Kent's long-fingered hand wrapped around that thick, long cock, pumping and thrusting into his fist as he watched me, as if I were some vital component in his arousal. As if he couldn't stand to be without me.

  I had no idea what he saw in me—only that I saw the same thing in him. The attraction was so raw, so close to the surface that it couldn't be denied. Something about the curve of his body around the bass, something about the subtle thrusting of his hips in time to the music, something about the way his tongue slipped out from between his teeth to wet his lips as we stared at each other—all of it reminded me of the way he'd kissed me and sent a bolt of lightning through my body, burning away my reason and immolating my common sense in the sudden conflagration of our meeting bodies.

  My face grew hot as I sat on the floor, my breathing uneven. The thrusts of his hips became more pronounced, and I began to fear that the others would notice him grinding into his bass the same way he ground his cock against my ass. The memory seared through me and made me squirm where I sat. My swollen core rubbed between my thighs and I bit my lip, trying to ground myself in reality, but I couldn't. My skin was on fire, the beat pulsing low in my belly. My clit was a hard nub, aching for attention, and a sweet gush of wet warmth had already drenched my panties. Inside my shirt, my nipples had tightened painfully, standing out from my soft breasts and aching for even the barest of touches.

  What would Kent's hands feel like on my bare tits? Would they be rough? Yes, of course they would be. They would be harsh and demanding. He would pinch me until I shrieked, twist and pull, wringing pain and pleasure from me in equal measure. His huge hands would flatten them, leave bruises on the soft, pale flesh, and I would love every second of it.

  A man like Kent fucked you so painfully the pure avalanche of sensation would push you over the edge. He was the kind of man you fucked because you wanted to stop feeling. The kind of man you fucked because you hated your life. A self-destructive fuck, one that would end in tears and arson.

  No wonder I was so attracted to him.

  He wouldn't stop staring at me. In self-defense I closed my eyes, but it just made it worse. The music rode a harsh, painful beat, and to my shock my core squeezed tight, contracting around empty space, aching to be filled. Without my consent my tongue slipped from between my teeth and I began to lick my lips, my breath coming in quick, hot bursts.

  This was bad. This was very very bad. I had to get out of here—but I couldn't leave, and I couldn't very well stick my fingers into my panties in front of everyone. I mean, I probably could, but it wasn't late enough for that and no one was inebriated enough. Opening my eyes I tore my face away from Kent's and glanced wildly around the room, searching for something, anything to occupy my mind.

  There was nothing around me. I could always pull out my phone and try to find something on my crappy data connection that would distract me long enough to escape from the sensations of the music, but my skin was starting to tingle. If I sat here any longer I would spread my legs and begin grinding into the floor.

  Abruptly I stood, stumbling, feeling drunk. No one paid me any mind except Carter, who looked up with a question on his face—and Kent. I felt his gaze burning into me. I had to escape it. I couldn't breathe.

  My eyes alighted on the white ladder leading up to the small loft above the practice area. Sucking air through my teeth I practically sprinted across the small room and scrambled up the rungs. I ignored the stumbling of the bass beat and hauled myself up over the edge, panting hard as the music crowded the space between the floor of the loft and the ceiling. Kent had dropped out and I was glad that his pounding rhythm no longer pursued me.

  That didn't change the fact that my core still pulsed and ached, begging for a pounding, for skilled fingers to stroke me into a sweet, hot frenzy, for a firm tongue to flutter against my clit until I exploded. Licking my lips, I rubbed my thighs together restlessly, my eyes flitting about the loft, searching for that fridge full of beer Carter had mentioned.

  What I got instead was an eyeful. An eyeful of disaster, that is.

  The music faded from my consciousness as I was assaulted on all sides by mess.

  The loft was terrifying in its thorough destruction. Clothes, old pizza boxes, trag
ically abandoned beer bottles, cigarette butts and old roaches of both the drug and the insect kind—all of them blotted out the sensations of the music, completely and thoroughly. All thoughts of surreptitiously masturbating up here in the loft flew from my skull. There was no way—no way—anyone, anywhere, could be sexy up here unless they were high as hell.

  Which would probably explain the used condoms sitting in an old peanut butter jar next to the ladder. Suddenly I wished I had a hazmat suit.

  Cleaning. Making home wherever you found it. Aside from being a sadsack that let life happen to her, asserting control over my environment was the only thing I was good at it, and as the thrum of the bass picked up again I knew I had to block it out by whatever means necessary. Kent Hudson was dangerous to me; I'd just escaped one destructive relationship, and I didn't need another one. That was all I saw on the horizon with a man who had contracted me to play the part of girlfriend to his wayward brother, and who could not, it seemed, keep himself from trying to fuck me. Destruction. Conflagration. A rider on a pale horse. Civilization falls. Millions dead. Oh, the humanity.

  I could not control the reactions of my body. Deep breaths only led to swells of desire. So I did the only thing I could do, there in that hideous excuse for a loft: I cleaned it.

  Start in one spot. Clean that spot. Move onto the next.

  Gather the clothes—they would have to be washed—and put them in a pile. A pile of papers, at first glance a contract—set those in a neat stack. Another pile of papers—receipts? Again on the stack. More paper, poetry and lyrics and scrawled musical notes—new pile.

  Trash. Beer bottles, beer cans, a mirror with traces of white powder on it—no trash bags yet, but slated for an inevitable end. Blankets piled high in the corner on a bare mattress, faded and looking as though they had last been washed before Lollapalooza. Debate, but into the trash. Flip the mattress over, find it fairly clean. Fine. Leave it there.