Rock Me Baby

by Jesse Jordan

  “Too bad Rocky can't see things the same way,” I mutter to myself. “Best friend.... fuck me.”

  That's exactly what you want him to do, the naughty little voice in my head whispers. You want him to fill you up, to give you things you've only read about.

  “Shut the fuck up,” I whisper, turning over and jamming my hand between my thighs. It's not much, but at least the warmth against my panties helps a little bit. I sigh and close my eyes, trying to get to sleep, but all I can see in my mind is Rocky, the way he looked tonight when we were working together.

  My fingers twitch, rubbing on their own, and my sigh becomes heavier, the warmth spreading from my pussy and up to my stomach. For years I've wanted Rocky, and all I want is one chance, one shot to show him how much he means to me. One kiss...

  “Rock...” I whisper, laying on my back and letting my legs part a little bit, giving my fingers more freedom. My panties are getting soaked, the thin 'good girl' cotton rubbing warmly against my skin, the ripples of pleasure rolling up my body while my toes start to curl.

  My pussy is trembling, my fingers swirling in tight little circles around my clit and over my lips while I bring my free hand up, pinching my nipples until I'm gasping, glad that Mom and Dad's bedroom is all the way at the far end of the hallway. It's embarrassing enough that I'm an eighteen-year-old virgin who's masturbating about my crush of the past six years, but I don't need my parents walking in on it also.

  Still, the knot of energy builds inside me, my mind filling me with images of Rocky, the Pacific water glistening on his skin during our trips to the beach, or Rocky jumping, his stomach muscles ripped and hard as he goes for a jump shot in the driveway... but most of all the way Rocky looks when he sings, the slow songs that sometimes he sings just when it's the two of us, karaoke tracks playing on my computer to give him backup, the 'cheese fests' that we both secretly love. The way he looks at me then, like he's actually singing for me, that he wants me the same way I want him...

  “Ro...” I gasp as my fingers move faster, faster, and my body tightens before the wave of my climax rolls through me, my back arching a little and my feet digging into the blanket, lightness, and happiness filling me before the feeling fades, leaving me empty. My body is satisfied, kinda, but my heart isn't, and no amount of touching myself is going to cure that.

  Chapter 2

  Rocky

  “Man, check out the duds on this motherfucking guy!” Chris jokes when I come out of the dressing room at the store, showing off my rental tuxedo. “Damn near looks presentable!”

  “It's hard work being this damn pre-tay,” I taunt back, doing a quick little half turn in my socks. I don't need to try on the shoes, this is just for the party part of the prom, not the important part. I've already picked out my outfit for performing. “But seriously guys, what do you think?”

  “In that outfit, I think you're gonna have panties dropping even before we get on stage,” Tim comments, fiddling with his bow tie before he gives up in frustration. “Seriously, this is a fucking pre-tied tie. How the fuck can it be this difficult to get on?”

  “Because you've got the neck of an elephant?” Chris asks. He goes behind Tim and adjusts something, then steps back. “There. How's that?”

  Tim rolls his head a little and then tweaks his tie one more time. “Yeah, I guess that's going to work. I still think I'm going to need to stay as far away from Rocky here as possible until we get on stage. Yeah, wingmen sometimes get action, but fuck, compared to this guy here, I'm looking like a dog.”

  “That's what you get for trying to make a name for yourself by being part of the track team and then deciding that you're better at the shot and discus,” I joke, patting Tim on his big shoulders. He's not really all that fat, he's just a big, compact guy. I've seen him shoot hoops though with a shirt off and while he's not ripped, he's just solid. He says he's part Samoan, so maybe that's it. “Maybe you should go with a no-tie option?”

  “No way, dude, my Mom's too old fashioned to let me do that. I'm pushing it as it is going with the vest instead of the cummerbund. If Mom picked it out for me and I'd end up wearing baby blue with a fucking ruffled shirt or something,” Tim complains good-naturedly. “Besides, don't knock the track events. It helped me get into UCSD.”

  I shake my head sadly. I mean, I get it that Tim has never wanted to be a bass player in a real band. He likes to mess around playing with me and Chris in the garage or around the school. But Tim is into more than just music. In addition to track, he's into engineering, and maybe get in with some of the different companies down near UCSD. They say San Diego's possibly becoming California's next Silicon Valley.

  So in a few months, The Shattered Dreams are going to be just that, shattered. Tim is going to UCSD, and Chris.... well Chris' got a tough situation. He uses music to get away from his drunk Dad. After graduation, Chris' going to join the Marines, shipping out for boot camp a week after we get our diplomas. Chris also says he's going to use the GI Bill to go to college, and I hope he does. He deserves better than how he's living in right now.

  But that leaves just me staying in the Los Angeles area. The fact is, I know that music is my thing. I've been working hard trying to live the dream, making it as an artist. Sure, they say that rock is dead, but that's just because rock's changed over the years. There’s been rock-a-billy, hippie-rock, folk-rock, protest-rock, hard rock, heavy metal with all its derivatives, glam rock, hair bands, nu-metal, rap rock, and the list goes on and on and on.

  I know my sound though. I want good, gritty rock. Something like Springsteen used to do, when he just wanted to sing about real people with real problems. I want to put out songs that make you think but also can make you want to dance. Hell, I want to put out the next song that gets football teams fired up, or that strongmen listen to right before they decide to pick up a car and see how far they can carry the fucker. Whatever it is, I want it to be... honest rock.

  For Chris and Tim though, we'll stay friends, but graduation means the end of the band. I'm already reaching out through Facebook and Craigslist to try and find a couple of new guys to jam with. There's a band that's looking for a new lead vocalist, they're based in Reseda, so that might be okay. I'll have to see later.

  But tomorrow night is the last performance of The Shattered Dreams and my last chance to put together a demo video for sending out. I've been working with Cora, and the YouTube work is helping, but I need to show that I'm not just a guy who can sing along with a karaoke track on a video.

  “Come on Tim, Rocky's getting all introspective and shit,” Chris says, taking off his jacket. “Besides, we still have to go pick out our corsages. You know, for our dates?”

  “Aww-yeah...” Tim growls, and I gotta laugh. He acts like a total horn dog, but inside he's a total teddy bear, and he's been practically out of his mind with happiness since he somehow, scored a date with Hillary Kendall for the prom. Yep, that Hillary Kendall, all six feet of half-Chinese, half-Norwegian model looks and a body that has earned her a little bit of local celebrity for the way she fills out her volleyball uniform. Tim has been head over heels for her since freshman year, and finally, she's paying attention to him. I'm glad for him really, and I hope that he's able to show her that his insides are worth overlooking his less than surfer-ripped outside.

  “Tim, you know that you gotta play a little hard to get, right?” I ask him as we get our tuxes bagged up and ready to take to the trunk of Chris' car. “Seriously, you pick up Hillary tomorrow with that sign on your forehead, and you're going to get nowhere.”

  “What sign?” Tim asks as we leave the store. “I don't have a sign.”

  “Yeah, you do. The one that says I'm yours, Hillary that everyone but you can see,” Chris jokes. Chris unlocks the trunk and we put our rented tuxes inside, slamming the back closed just as Chris goes on. “Speaking of people with signs... Rocky, you going to make a move on Cora?”

  The three of us pile into Chris' old Ford and he cranks it up, Queen gr
eeting us this time. Not bad at all. But what Chris said just before we got in bothers me. “What the hell are you talking about, Chris? That's Cora, not some girl.”

  “Not some girl?” Tim asks. “Uh, Rock, you do realize that Cora's one of the cutest girls in school, right? Strawberry blond hair, those blue eyes. Let's face it, she's got a tight little body. And she's one of the coolest chicks I've ever met.”

  “Drop it, Tim,” I warn him. “Seriously, Cora and I have been friends for like, six years, ever since she moved to Simi from Westlake. She's like my sister, man. Why are you talking about her like that?”

  “Because it's pretty damn clear to me and to everyone else that Cora's not looking at you like you're her brother, dude,” Tim says. “I'm just sayin'...”

  “Well, don't. Just don't,” I say with a shake of my head, staring out the window as Chris gets on the 118 heading back towards Simi Valley. I don't need this crap right now. It's the whole reason that I asked Cora to the prom. She and I have been tight for a long time, even before The Shattered Dreams started performing together. And we're just friends, that's it.

  The fact is, Cora is just about the coolest girl that I've ever known. When I told her in eighth grade that I wanted to be a singer in a rock band, she didn't laugh or didn't call my dream stupid. She didn't say that I needed to give up on singing and instead focus on getting better grades. Instead, she just said that it was a cool dream, and then we talked for two hours, going over some good music.

  But most of all, she's stuck by me, and she's been honest. When my singing's sucked, or I reached too far, she's told me. She's recorded and remixed at least two dozen YouTube videos for me, she's been the sound person and videographer on everything The Shattered Dreams have done. Hell, she even drove me and Tim all the way to Anaheim for an open mic night, supposedly someone from Sony Records was to be there. She gives me feedback and been my biggest supporter. There's a reason she's my Muse. No matter what, people can see what they want to see, but there's never been anything between us.

  There’s a thousand and one reasons she's my friend. That's all she is, right?

  The gym's been redone in that uber-cheesy style that's made up high school proms forever, but that's okay as I escort Cora inside. She's looking good in an ice blue party dress that highlights her eyes, and even though she's my friend... she's a very pretty friend. “Wow, they outdid themselves.”

  “They did,” Cora says, taking my arm. She looks around, and I'm glad I invited her. Sure, it's cheese central, but I guess for Cora, the idea of our senior prom does have a little bit of magic to it, and she's feeling it. I'm glad that I'm here to share it with her. “So, where do you want to sit?”

  “Who cares?” I ask with a laugh. “I already see Tim out there with Hillary, there's no way I'm gonna be able to pry him away from her until gig time, and even then, I might need a crowbar. We might as well find where the band’s sitting and get some drinks.”

  Cora looks a little disappointed, maybe she doesn't like Tim as much I thought, or maybe she and Hillary have some sort of girl-beef going on. I don't think Hillary and Cora run in the same circles, Hillary's a pop-jock while Cora's into the whole indie-rock-music crew, but who knows, maybe they ran into each other in the library sometime and the claws came out over something. “Uh... Rocky, do you mind if we have at least one dance? You know... for form's sake?”

  I look at her and smile, nodding. That's all it is, I got it. Duh. I was just thinking that Cora's kinda caught up in the magic of prom, and here I go forgetting that. She just wants a little bit of that magic too before I get to make magic on stage. “You know it. I one hundred percent promise you, Cora, that after the set, you and I will close out the night dancing together. And if you want, we can find something beforehand too. Just... man, I'm so twitching for this! You see that stage up there? That's going to be ours tonight, babe, ours!”

  “You mean yours,” Cora says softly, so soft I can barely hear her over the music that's already playing. “You go out on stage Rocky, and it's always your stage.”

  I turn and take Cora's hands, confused. “Cora, you know that I wouldn't be able to do what I've done without your help. You're the reason I'm going to be up there. You're the reason that tonight's going to rock, and I want you to be able to enjoy it. So, no, that's going to be our stage tonight. If you wanted, I'd find a way for you to be up there with us, singing backup vocals or whatever. But I respect your choice to stay out in the crowd.”

  Cora bites her lip, and nods. “Okay. So... a drink, then maybe a dance?”

  We only have a half hour before it's time for the Dreams to get ready, but I do my best during that time to make it a fun party for Cora. She's a little more mainstream than I am in terms of liking the prom, I just wanted to jam. But Cora's still a girl, and she enjoys dancing with me as we break it down some to Drake, and DJ Khaled, even if it was the radio edited version. Soon enough though, my phone buzzes in my tux pocket, and it's time to go change.

  “Hey, you stay here,” I tell her, knocking back the last of the horrible punch. “I want you to be able to enjoy the show audience-side one last time.”

  “Okay,” Cora says, and at least she's smiling when I get up, tugging Tim out of his seat where he's been trying his best not to fawn over Hillary, but she seems to be fine with it. Chris is already waiting for us in the boys’ locker room next to the gym, where we ditch our tuxes for our performing clothes.

  “You guys took long enough,” Chris says, shaking his head. He's already in his standard jam gear, black jeans and a checkered shirt, grunge inspired but cleaned up to fit Southern Cali tastes. “What happened?”

  “She kissed me,” Tim whispers, and we both stop, looking over at him, no wonder he's looking starry eyed. “During that little break after Work From Home. She said... well, she wished me luck.”

  “Damn dude,” I tease, and Chris laughs. “But seriously, good deal. Now, let's get our heads right, and see if maybe we can put on a set that'll get you an upgrade from just a kiss. You got a clear head?”

  Tim takes off his tux jacket and adjusts his pants, grinning in embarrassment. “I don't think I've got any blood in my head.”

  “Well, maybe not the one on your neck,” Chris jokes, turning around to give Tim some privacy while he pulls his pants off to put on his own jeans. I'm going for the classic rocker look, black pants, white shirt, and a denim jacket but slightly upgraded in terms of look so I don't piss off Mr. Gabineau too much.

  A quick run of a brush through my hair which I pull back into a ponytail, kinda loose. Checking myself in the mirror, I feel good. “You guys ready?”

  “Yeah,” Tim says, while Chris fusses with his shoelaces. Tim and I can play in just about anything, in fact, my shoes aren't even tied right now, but Chris needs decent fit on his footwear for some of the drumming he does. “Hey, Rock?”

  “Wassup?” I ask, popping a breath mint and grinning. “Just in case.”

  “Whatever,” Tim laughs, rolling his eyes. I've been popping breath mints before going on stage since we first started getting together, it's kind of my lucky charm. “I just wanted to say... well, it's been fun. And to remember us when you're famous. I want tickets.”

  “Fuck it, man, you and Hillary get married, I'll be the wedding singer,” I joke. “Now you just gotta find a way to convince her to marry your wannabe Bill Gates ass. Come on, let's rock.”

  The crowd is buzzing as we set up, the DJ spinning some techno-dance to give everyone a break from what's to come.

  Mr. Gabineau is at the mic in his suit, giving us a once over as we get our instruments on, but he can't complain too much. “All right Sequoia High, let’s welcome to the stage now, The Shattered Dreams!”

  There's a decent amount of applause, we've done enough that the kids who like rock tend to appreciate us, and those who don't can at least say we play well enough that they don't hate us. I'll take that. You can't please everyone.

  “Thanks, Mr. G!” I thank him, givi
ng him my smirky-smile that I like to use on stage, it's wiseass enough that people think I'm getting away with something by calling Mr. Gabineau just 'G.' “All right Sequoia, here's a new one for you guys!”

  Tim starts Get Up with his bass, and I'm soon behind working the notes that he can't mimic with his bass before switching to general chording while singing the lyrics.

  It takes about half the song, but by the end, we've got folks rocking with us, and when the last distorted riff fades away, we get a good amount of applause, and I raise my hand, thanking them.

  “Hey, guys, awesome reception. Okay, this next one goes out to Mrs... well, you know,” I joke, giving another grin and a wink that has lots of people laughing. “Thanks for all that extra... tutoring.”

  Hot for Teacher might be nothing but a big pile of cheese, it might be thirty years old, but it's the only Van Halen song that I can play the guitar solo for, and it's upbeat enough that everyone is able to laugh and have a good time, dancing their asses off while the three of us sing about a schoolboy's crush on his teacher. There's a few of the faculty who are giving me dagger looks, especially Mr. Gabineau but come on, it's the fucking senior prom!

  When Chris smashes his drum one last time, he's grinning, and he's able to chill for a few minutes at least. I'm a bit nervous though, run-throughs in practice have been hard on this one, and some of the note changes I must do with my voice are hard. The lights on stage dim, and I look out, seeing Cora though, and I smile. Okay, just like in the garage, when it was just the two of us, singing for her...

  I'm just about to start my picking on the guitar when I see Duane Phillips walk up to Cora. I've seen him around at school and he's in a bunch of the same classes as Cora, all college prep there. He obviously asks Cora to dance, and when she looks up at me I see something in her eyes and on her face. Oh, I see. A little bit more of that prom magic. Okay then, Cora, this one's for you.