Sophie's Encore (The Rock Star Romance Series)

by Nicky Wells

  The other eyebrow shot into orbit, too. “They’re sleeping in my guitar cases?”

  “Well…um, Emily is. Josh was too big, so he’s in a transport case.”

  Dan eyed me silently for a moment then gave a bellow of laughter. “Sophie Jones, I don’t believe what I am hearing. Never in a million years would I have thought you’d be relaxed enough to succumb to the old touring tradition of sleeping the kids in the equipment cases. Good for you. Bloody brilliant.”

  He gave me a big hug and a quick kiss. “I must just go and see for myself,” he muttered.

  “Don’t wake them,” I shouted after him, resisting the urge to tag along. He should find out by himself that I really was relaxed enough.

  “Good for you,” Joe echoed. “I bet you were worried about this to begin with, but Ellen used to do this all the time.”

  “That’s what the roadie said,” I replied, but felt relief nonetheless at having this confirmed by Joe.

  “Ah, Pete, he’s a sweetheart. He’s been with us from the start. I knew he’d sort you guys out.”

  “So cute,” Dan butted into our conversation. “I’d love to take a photo, but it’s too dark in there.”

  “Already done,” I grinned, and showed Joe and Dan the picture I took earlier. “But what now? Won’t the roadies need the cases?”

  Joe shrugged. “Not for a half hour or so. They’ll be taking down the stage first. And we’re off on the bus soon anyway.” He and Dan clinked bottles, and we joined the short but raucous after-party that had sprung up in the green room.

  A short twenty minutes later, it was time for us to leave The Arena. Dan carefully lifted Josh, and I carried Emily out to the waiting tour bus. It was a little awkward, clambering on the bus with a sleeping child snuggled against my chest, but I managed and gratefully laid my daughter into the bottom bunk at the front of a row of beds running nearly the length of the bus.

  “It’s quietest here, and you and I will take the two top bunks above the kids,” Dan explained after he had deposited Josh in the bed opposite to Emily.

  “Cool.” I giggled, unable to stop a tiny shiver of excitement myself. I had been on a tour bus just like this one, many years ago, but I had never tried the beds.

  Dan heard my glee and nudged me. “Who knows…time to finish some unfinished business tonight?”

  I slapped him on the chest. “Now, now, you got me blushing. We couldn’t possibly…what with everyone else here!”

  “Says who?” Dan was all innocence.

  “Says me! And the kids are here…”

  Dan belly laughed, but immediately cut his explosion short. “No longer a virgin, but now a prude?” He clicked his tongue. “Sophie, Sophie, what is the world coming to?”

  “I am not a prude,” I hissed. “But it is really cramped here and…”

  “Welcome to the unglamorous side of rock star travel,” Dan pronounced and changed the subject. “Let’s join the others for a little bevvy at the back, shall we?”

  And thus, in another uncanny replay of events from a lifetime ago, I found myself sitting in the lounge area at the back of the bus, wedged between Darren and Dan, drinking champagne and beer as the bus started up and rocked its way out of the parking lot toward the interstate. The roadies and equipment would be only a few hours behind us, and would head straight for the next stadium to set up the stage for sound check by early afternoon the day after tomorrow. It was an amazing feeling to be part of the logistical master plan of my favorite band on tour again.

  Conversation flowed for a half-hour or so, fueled by bubbles and the knowledge of a gig well done. But quickly, the band members retired to their bunks, one by one. Dan, too, suggested we go to bed, and I agreed. I was still feeling the jetlag and was quite keen to try sleeping in one of the cute, swaying little bunks. Grabbing my overnight bag, I performed a quick change and clean in the little bathroom on the lower level of the bus, then padded my way along the now dark corridor toward the front. Dan was already in his bunk, and I half-climbed his ladder to give him a quick kiss goodnight.

  “Is that it?” Dan whispered, his voice barely audible above the swooshing sound of the tires and the purring of the engine.

  “Yes,” I whispered back. “I think so.”

  My rock star reached out an arm and held onto my hand.

  “Come on up for a quick cuddle, at least,” he pleaded.

  I cast a look down the length of the bus. All curtains were drawn, the bunks were in darkness, and the occasional snore further added to the white noise blanketing the coach.

  “Okay,” I conceded, suppressing a giggle. I climbed up the ladder and lay down beside Dan. The bed was extremely narrow and we had to lie sideways, facing each other. Dan’s breath was hot on my face, warm and mint-scented. When on earth had he found the time to brush his teeth?

  He caught me sniffing and tickled my ribs. “I got a lot more experience doing this than you. And oral hygiene is important.” He sounded like my dentist, and I giggled some more, not least because he was still tickling me. Suddenly, I found myself lying on top of him, stretched out along the length of the bunk. In the pitch dark, I couldn’t really see Dan’s face, but I swear he grinned.

  “Now, then, that’s better,” he murmured and stroked my face. He pulled me down onto him and kissed me, lips on lips, tongue on tongue. Despite the cramped environment and the immediate proximity of ten other people, two of whom were my own underage children, I felt myself responding with a long, low, almost desperate moan.

  “Shh,” Dan whispered. “The trick is to breathe deeply and slowly, and to barely move at all.”

  Breathe deeply and slowly. Barely move at all. I experimented with that while he resumed kissing me, and my head swam with lust. I had no idea Dan had perfected the art of tantric sex, but it was delicious.

  Using barely perceptible movements, Dan very gently—and very slowly—tugged at my pajama bottoms until they slid down over my hips, then did the same for himself. I half-straddled him and our lower regions met up close, skin on skin, heat on heat. I felt electrified. A million butterflies tickled my tummy and my ladyship throbbed and danced in delicious anticipation. Dan moved, slowly, barely perceptively. He shifted his weight and slid his body down a little. Cold air touched my skin where his body broke contact with mine, and the sudden coolness only heightened the heat of the moment. I tried to keep my breathing slow and steady, but it was difficult as I grew dizzy with the effort of hovering above my lover. My arms trembled, and a thousand stars danced before my eyes.

  Then Dan moved up again, gently, and he began to push up and inside me. The tip of his hardness opened my folds and I lowered my hips to speed his entry, but he pulled away.

  “Steady on,” he breathed. “Be patient. Hold still”

  Dan placed his hands against my hips to support me, and I remained poised and unmoving while he entered me once more. Slowly and carefully, the movement progressed up inside me and I lost track of time, lost any perception of my own dimensions or his, so that he seemed to consume me whole. I was moist, I was wet, I was ready, and his hot, hard manhood brought my wetness to a boil. I had never felt anything as thrilling, as exciting, as challenging. We merged together, fusing into each other, and it took me a moment to realize that we were one. A delicious wave of release threatened to overwhelm me but I clenched my muscles to hold it back. Dan felt the contraction and moaned softly in response.

  “You like that, do you?” I teased in a low, hoarse whisper and contracted again. Dan ground against me and the tension nearly drove me to the brink. I exhaled, finally allowing myself to sink farther still onto his hardness, until I was filled to the brim.

  I laid my head on his chest and let myself melt into the moment. I dug my hands into his shoulders and savored the unfamiliar quietness of the sexual explosion, our tiny motions augmented a thousand-fold by the swaying of the bus. We lay like this for the longest time until I thought I would expire with desire. Languidly, I flicked my tongue against
his nipple, producing a violent shudder and a barely suppressed groan. His groin rose and bucked, and he tangled his hands in my hair, burying his head in my neck to stifle his scream. Seconds later, he pushed me up, undoing the buttons of my pajama top so his mouth could find my nipples, sucking them in turn until he had to cover my mouth with hot, ferocious kisses to stop me from giving us away.

  Melted together, breathing as one, swaying with the motion of the vehicle that carried us through the night, we finally came together, rocking and bucking and trembling. The climax crashed over us repeatedly like slow, persistent and unstoppable waves washing against the shore until the storm was spent and its force ebbed away.

  The next week passed in a blur of traveling, rehearsals, shows, and—for the Jones family only—sightseeing. The last six hours on the bus to San Francisco seemed interminable, and everyone was questioning the wisdom of the decision to go by road, but nonetheless, after more than thirteen hours, we arrived at our destination on time and gratefully checked into our hotel.

  The band disappeared for their TV appearance and a few other engagements that Jack had somehow organized en route, while the kids and I took some time to splash about in the hotel pool and postponed exploring the city until the following day. Of course we took in the Golden Gate Bridge, although the highlight for the children was a ride on the cable cars up and down the hills. The San Francisco show went off without a hitch, and I put the kids into their pajamas early on in the evening, ready to snuggle into their touring beds when they needed to.

  Once they were asleep, I put my VIP pass around my neck and left the backstage area to join the sound engineers at the mixing desk for a spot of observation. Richard had talked me through the challenges of managing live sound during the last rehearsal, and I was curious to see this in action.

  After the San Francisco gig, we once again climbed on the bus to have ourselves driven the much shorter distance to LA, where the schedule allotted the band two days after the gig for interviews and recording time. The record company threw a big after-party at the hotel, featuring glitterati and luminaries both from the music and film industries. While the kids slept safe and sound in our suite under the watchful eye of the hotel babysitting service, I mingled cheerfully alongside Dan, enjoying myself.

  Dan steadfastly refused to comment on our situation, although we received many a curious question. He simply smiled and introduced me as his long-standing friend, Sophie Jones.

  “Your picture will be all over the Internet within hours,” he warned. “Are you okay with that?

  “I am,” I whispered back, having known from the moment I got on the plane with him what I was letting myself in for. “I…I feel like…I don’t know, like this is right, after all this time.”

  “Good.” Dan smiled. “There’ll be speculation and rumors, and they’ll dig up all the old history, every photo, every article. Well, you of all people know how it works. It’ll be a storm, but it’ll be a blast, and I’m fine with it as long as you are.”

  For a tiny moment, it appeared as though there was an opening for me to ask, in this most unlikely of places. For one second, we were alone among the hundreds of people around us, and I longed to confirm what “it” actually was that we were both okay with, to substantiate what we had been talking about these past few days without actually saying the words, to verify where we were going. “It” was between us almost every night. It was in his eyes right then, and I was certain it was in mine, too. But the music turned louder, the lights dimmed, and the place erupted into wild dancing. Three hours later, we fell into bed together, exhausted, exhilarated, hungry for each other, and far too busy to talk.

  The next day, we linked up with Dan’s sister, Jodie, and she showed Emily, Josh, and me around the city while the band was busy. She had organized tickets for us to take a tour of the film studios and of Beverly Hills, and the kids marveled at the sets, the ‘real’ King Kong and Jaws hanging about, and the big letters on the mountain.

  We flew to Chicago from LA, complete with roadies and equipment, arriving in our hotel late on a Sunday night. The kids and I had been in the States for exactly one week, and we had become accustomed to the completely different lifestyle that Dan offered us there. Yet, after three shows and three sets of travel, not to mention three sets of intensive city-exploration for the children and me, we all crashed in Chicago and spent the day lounging about in the hotel, playing games, watching telly, and catching our breath.

  I took the opportunity to ring Mum and Dad and even Rachel, just briefly. Naturally, she wanted to know what exactly was going on, but given the presence of the children, I played coy and promised to fill her in on my return.

  “That tells me everything I need to know,” Rachel guffawed. “I am having flashbacks here like you can’t imagine. Be good. Or be bad, rather. Love ya!”

  I had a huge smile on my face when I rang off. I hadn’t bothered to correct her mistaken assumption about the flashbacks, yet I was getting them, too. In fact, it felt like I was living in an alternative universe where I was about to be offered—perhaps? maybe? pretty please?—a chance to take the route I didn’t follow the first time around, in spite of, or possibly because of, everything else that had happened to me in the intervening years.

  Even the stars were given a rare day off before the show, and Dan slept through most of it—as did the rest of the band, I assumed, for nobody surfaced until just before sound check. I felt like a pro during the Chicago gig when I expertly dispatched the kids to their touring beds and joined Richard at the sound desk again.

  That night, he put me in charge of vocals. “You need to hear the vocals loud and clear,” was his motto, so his job—or mine—was to make sure this happened. This also meant that effects, such as reverb on the guitars, had to be “killed” between songs when Tuscq would talk with the audience. Richard was running the effects for the guitars through a special sub-console, and I was to mute that loop whenever the band wanted to interact with the fans.

  “Dan has a habit of speaking out of turn, without warning, and you need to be on the ball when he makes an unscheduled little speech,” Richard advised.

  It was a fantastic, if slightly nerve-wracking, experience being at the live mixing console, the best spot for listening to the show in the entire stadium, and being in charge of Dan’s voice, but I relished every moment and dearly wished the show would never end. Who would have thought that I would get such kicks out of this task?

  Yet end, the show did, and it was straight onto the bus for us all again, off to the last stop of the tour, the grand finale: New York.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  “This is it,” Dan told me on the morning of the last gig. “The biggest show of the tour. We’ll finish with a bang and some fireworks.” His eyes glowed with excitement while he helped himself to another croissant. We were in the hotel near the stadium, which was actually just outside of New York City, on the other side of the river in New Jersey. The kids had eaten their fill and were charging around the room, pretending to be airplanes while Dan and I finished up a late breakfast.

  “How so? Are you doing something different tonight?” I poured more tea and sat back, pulling my legs up onto the sofa and reclining.

  “You can say that again. For starters, we’ll have three support acts. The two bands who’ve been touring with us, and another, completely new local artist. I’ve heard their demo, and they rock.” He grinned. “I remember those days. This is our turn to give a new band the chance to play an arena. I’m telling you, those guys are a lot more nervous than we are right now.”

  “Cool.” I had never really given much thought before about the reasoning behind the support line-up, but it made sense. A new, local artist, an up-and-coming band, perhaps slightly different in orientation—one of Tuscq’s support bands was of the punk rock persuasion—and a rising star.

  “And fireworks? What’s that all about?”

  Dan shrugged. “Jack’s idea. He got special permission fo
r an end-of-show, farewell-United-States fireworks display in this arena, and he got a camera crew to video the whole show for a promotional DVD or…” He took a sip of tea and smiled. “Or perhaps even a big-screen, Tuscq-on-the-road kind of movie. Who knows.”

  I spluttered. “My God, that would be awesome.”

  “Wouldn’t it just? By the way…”

  My cup of tea froze in mid-transit to my mouth. There was a mischievous, provocative glint in Dan’s eyes. Uh-oh.

  “What?”

  Dan cleared his throat. “Do you remember that New Year’s Eve gig?”

  I laughed. “Of course I do. It was good to see you back on your feet.”

  “No, not that one. The other one.” Dan shifted in his seat.

  “Dan, I hate to remind you, but you do a New Year’s Eve show every year. You’ll have to be a bit more precise.”

  “The one where you sang. With me. On stage. Remember?”

  My cup of tea was still in mid-transit, and I made an effort to set it down on the table. “Yes. I do.”

  Dan rose and came across to the sofa, lifting my legs and sitting down, then putting my legs on his lap and rubbing my feet. His eyes were soft and pleading. I knew that look. Uh-oh again.

  “Would you? Again? Do me the honor of joining me tonight, on stage?”

  A thousand emotions fought with each other in my head, the strongest being abject horror. I allowed myself a moment of contemplation before I spoke, not wanting to say the wrong thing. I could tell by the earnest look on Dan’s face that he hadn’t made this request lightly, or offhand.

  “Why?” Eventually, I settled on a small diversionary tactic to investigate the cause of his plea.

  He simply shrugged. “No reason. I haven’t even discussed it with the band. It just…kind of occurred to me right now.”

  Emboldened by the fact that I wasn’t actually in the official program, I dared to argue. “Do you really think it would be a good idea? I mean, come on, I’m not a trained singer. And I haven’t practiced for years, not even in the choir.”