Back Stage

by T Gephart

  “Since you’ve had sex, or since you came like that?” I wasn’t sure which answer I was hoping to hear, either one making me feel fucking awesome. I slowly eased my semi-hard dick out of her—the bastard already limbering up for round two. The discarding of the used condom was a necessary evil but I took care of it quickly so I could climb back into bed and continue the conversation. Her body curled up against mine the minute my back had hit the mattress.

  “Oh I can come like that anytime I want, it just usually takes a lot of work and a man isn’t involved.” Her fingers traced the grooves of my chest, slithering down to my abs.

  I bucked out a laugh. “Well then you’ve been sleeping with the wrong kind of men.”

  “Yeah, it seems to be a habit for me.”

  She didn’t smile; the lighthearted tone of the conversation taking a dive. That satisfied glow she’d had plastered on her face was also MIA with my stupid attempt at a joke, sounding like a personal taunt.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” Could we rewind ten seconds so I could pull my foot out of my mouth?

  “Actually, that’s exactly how you meant it.” Her eyes nailed me in a way that was not going to let me off the hook. “But it’s okay, the wrong guy usually gives the better orgasms.”

  Bravo. Another backhanded compliment courtesy of Angie Morelli. It was really impressive how good she was at it. Almost made me want to beg for more.

  “Is that why you’re here, using me so you don’t have to masturbate?” Because straight up, that would not be a problem for me.

  “Yes, that’s why I’m here.”

  If she was on the level with me or not, I had no idea. The let’s-just-fuck routine, a complete one-eighty from where we’d both been twenty-four hours ago. Surely no one does that. She hated me; she’d even said so. Who has sex with someone they didn’t like? It made zero fucking sense.

  “What are you thinking about?” She moved closer against me, her lips kissing my neck. And as much as this didn’t make sense, I would rather die than ask her to stop.

  “That I generally don’t have sex with people who hate me. I’d like to avoid the whole being-smothered-in-my-sleep thing. Call me sensitive.”

  In all honesty, I couldn’t say that if she did give my face some pillow action while I was catching some z’s that I wouldn’t have gone happy. That alone should have been enough of a warning to prove how bad of an idea this whole scenario was. But my dick, it seemed, had a death wish.

  Her face broke into an amused grin as she commenced laughing her ass off. “You think this was some sneaky diversionary tactic to try to kill you? Oh my god, that’s hysterical. I’m a musician not a CIA operative. And how conceited are you? No man would ever be worth jail time.”

  “Good.” My hand slowly slid down between her legs. “Now, get on your knees and let me do that again.”

  This time, I was the one who left.

  It was two in the morning, or so said the obnoxious clock beside Jase’s bed. Its stupid illuminated face taunted me, singing out with judgment, “Well done dumbass, you just slept with the enemy.”

  I’d never intended to stay. Sleeping over had never been part of the plan. Hell, fucking him had never been part of the plan, but that’s exactly what happened. My big plan went right out the window when I saw him and before I knew it, I had convinced myself that this was the right thing to do. It wasn’t beautiful or romantic, there were no whispered I love yous and there sure as hell wasn’t any slow seduction. It was erotic and rough; both of us primed for explosion, which is exactly what we got. Sex. We weren’t making love. It was pure unrestrained sex.

  What the hell had I been thinking?

  Anger.

  That was the only explanation as to why I would sleep with a guy who was just about to sleep with someone else. Who does that? Who decides that they are happy to be the next one in line? That had never been me. I should be disgusted. I should be sitting in a shower so hot it peels the top layer of skin from my body. Because that’s the way I’d felt the first time I’d slept with Jason. Or at least, how I’d felt the next day.

  Rage. Which was like anger but amplified, so at least I was consistent. That is why my dumbass self decided that the only hope I had of getting over Jason was doing exactly what he’d done to me. Use him for sex, but this time, on my terms. Taking back the control.

  It made more sense in my head.

  Mind blowing sex—which is what we’d had the last time, so I was hoping that hadn’t been a one-time deal—then out the door. Only this time, I would be the one walking.

  But all the good intentions in the world couldn’t fight the all-consuming fatigue I’d felt after. Screwing him one time and bailing hadn’t played out quite like I planned, oh no, with neither of us satisfied after just a taste. And the sex, was indescribable.

  Maybe it was because we had been avoiding each other for so long, maybe it was because I was so angry, but that great sex we’d had all those years ago was like a watered down Kool-Aid version of what we’d just had. I’d never been fucked like that. My body actually ached. At least I could skip the gym tomorrow, lord knows riding Jason Irwin burnt more calories than the elliptical.

  So when my eyes couldn’t stay open a minute longer, I rested my head on the pillow allowing myself a twenty to thirty minute nap. No harm in that. And then I would wake up refreshed from my power nap and walk my ass out the door. All in-your-face, just as I had planned.

  I wasn’t supposed to stay the night.

  Panic woke me. Or maybe it had been the fact I was dying from an obscenely high core temperature. Probably the latter given that Jason’s arms and legs tangled around mine were making me feel like I was in a hot dude cocoon. It might have been pleasant if there hadn’t been a history. One where I had fantasized about systematically removing all his internal organs starting with his heart. More to see if he had one. Which I assumed he did because I could feel it sarcastically beating against my back. Ugh.

  Being awake presented new problems, ones I hadn’t had to face while I had been blissfully ignorant in dreamland. My escape was the most pressing issue and how the hell I was going to unravel myself from Mr. Big Cock.

  Of course that wasn’t his real name, but honestly I’d forgotten how impressive it was. Not that I had actually looked at it the first time, I had been too excited that he was finally going to sleep with me, nervous too and the vodka I’d had hadn’t helped either. Then, in between then and now was the flood of average dick I had been subjected to. Nothing noteworthy, that’s for sure. All of which contributed to diluting the memory of it. Which was such a shame because it really was spectacular in all its pink perfect glory. Which is why I thought up that little term of endearment.

  While he impaled me.

  With his h-u-g-e cock.

  Repeatedly.

  Expertly.

  Amazingly.

  It had not been a problem for me at all.

  The problem was, getting out and getting gone.

  It started off slow. More like a little shimmy of my shoulder to see if my moving would wake him.

  It didn’t.

  Which meant I was able to graduate to wriggle, freeing the upper part of my body from his huge arms. Seriously, the man was tall, he had the wingspan of an albatross; this was not an easy feat.

  Still sleeping. Thank you, Jesus.

  Next were the legs, this carried a nine-point-eight difficulty rating because his leg was actually hooked around mine. Oh and his cock was hard and pressing into my hip, which meant I had to focus on the task at hand instead of leaning down and giving him a blowjob. Because that would be helpful—not.

  Success. I had wiggled, duked and jived my way out of the spoon-of-death, and had gently been able to lower my feet to the floor. My prayers to the gods of good times continued to allow me my walk of shame uninterrupted. Please do not wake up.

  Thankfully, he didn’t.

  Other problems, which presented themselves later, were the state of
my clothes. Or should I say, the lack of my clothes. The cute top I had been wearing—torn in half. My pretty black Victoria Secret’s bra—toast. My black skirt—a busted out zipper, and a split down the center seam. Oh look, my panties were still in one piece. And I found both my shoes. Wow, there was a silver lining after all. Unfortunately I was not a showgirl in Vegas, which meant my useable items did not an outfit make. Shit!

  As quiet as I was able—which was difficult being I was uttering the word fuck under my breath repeatedly—I cracked open one of the closets and prayed the man had something I could wear. Like a damn designer dress, worth a few hundred dollars to make up for the clothes he just destroyed. Asshole.

  Sadly his closet was not lined with anything other than jeans, shirts, T-shirts and other man apparel, so I settled for a T-shirt that was about ten sizes to big that very elegantly said “I Don’t Give a Fuck.” The irony. Ha. Ha. Ha. I was so freaking funny. The bottoms were a problem. Maybe I could pretend the T-shirt was a dress? It was long enough. Except my room was situated ten floors below the one I was on. Which meant walking out of here, getting into an elevator and—yeah not going to work.

  I begrudgingly threw on a pair of his sweatpants as well. Fucking ridiculous. Even with the drawstring pulled as tight as I could, they’d barely stayed up. Sure, that wasn’t obvious that I had no clothes. Well at least I wasn’t naked. See that’s twice with the silver lining. So much optimism I thought I might choke. Which is exactly what I needed to do to myself as soon as I left this room.

  With my heels in my hand, and hoping I hadn’t pushed my luck with my Fashion Police critique, I crept out of Jason’s room and into the living area. He slept right through it. Didn’t even move a muscle. His sleeping like a stone really was an occupational hazard, and should be addressed however. I could have robbed him blind. The clothes I had taken didn’t count as stealing though; they were restitution.

  Yes! Home free, baby. With Jase’s door shut securely behind me all I needed to do was walk across the large, dimly lit living room and I was in the clear. Thank you Jesus, it was easier than I thought. Oh, apart from having to pull a Houdini to escape his bed, and the improv on the wardrobe. Who was I kidding? Just get the hell out while the getting was good.

  “Angie?”

  Crap. So much for a clean getaway.

  “Hey, I thought it was you.” Megs lifted herself off the couch and strode closer toward me, obviously needing a front row seat to my mortification.

  “Hi.” One of my hands did a lame wave while the other, still holding my shoes, also held up my pants. I mean Jason’s pants. Ha. I had literally gotten into his pants. More irony. My lips spread into a smile before I could stop them.

  “Um. So, interesting shirt.” Her eyes dipped down and gave me an all-over inspection, the edges of her lips twitching with amusement.

  “I had an accident and needed to borrow something of Jason’s.” Lame. I didn’t know why I even tried.

  “Did your accident involve a penis?” Megs bit her lip as her grin widened.

  “Huh? What?” I scoffed, trying to sound surprised and indignant. No one was fooled.

  “There’s a condom wrapper in your hair.” Her fingers gently reached into my hair and pulled the foil Trojan packet that had seen fit to lodge itself there. I officially hated the universe. Fuck you very much, Jason Irwin.

  “Oh. That. Well. We had sex.”

  She really didn’t need the confirmation. No one was that stupid. Except for Jason, who should have had a better system for trash disposal. Another reason why I should hate him.

  “Cool. So, you want some ice cream?” She didn’t miss a beat, just lifted the tub in her hands, completely cool and unaffected. “I couldn’t sleep. Heartburn is a bitch. The stupid book I’m reading said ice cream is supposed to help but I think it’s just some bullshit old wives tale. I’m totally going to have an ass the size of Texas. I don’t even care.” She laughed flipping open the lid and waved her spoon.

  Where the hell was I? Was I hallucinating this? Who has these kinds of conversations? Did I miss the part where she gave me judgey eyes, which usually complemented the you-are-such-a-whore scowl? And ice cream? This was just too crazy.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Yeah, because all of that conversation couldn’t have just happened like it did. I must have knocked my head one too many times on the headboard. It’s not like it couldn’t be a possibility.

  “Ice cream.” She said the words slowly and looked around for a spare spoon. “It’s vanilla, so not that exciting but we can call and get—”

  “No, I got that. About the ice cream. I mean, I just told you I slept with Jase. We had sex.” It didn’t sound any less shady the second time, not sure why I was pushing the issue.

  “Oh, sorry. Did you want to talk about it? Was he an asshole? Do you want me to wake Troy? He can yell at him if you like.”

  “No. God, No.” Wasn’t sure exactly what I was saying no to, probably to all of it. Especially the part where she told Troy, that part deserved a big N to the Oh. “I’m not used to people being so—” What was the word? “Nice to me.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be nice? Troy’s told me all about you, and if you are important to him, you’re important to me. Besides, don’t let this normal exterior fool you, I am completely crazy underneath so I’m in no position to judge anyone. Unless they are wearing bad shoes. Then they are kind of opening themselves up for it. People who wear nice clothes and then skimp on the shoes can’t be trusted. I guarantee you, they’re hiding something.” She had barely taken a breath.

  “Wow, you are crazy, and I really like that.” And best of all, it had taken some of the weirdness out of the situation. The one where I was standing in the shared living space of Troy, Dan and Jason, wearing clothes I had borrowed from the man I’d just slept with. And then left.

  “Aw, thanks. Do you want to borrow some clothes? All my stuff is maternity but I’m sure we can ask Ash for something.” She moved toward her cell, which was lying on an end table. Her offer to ask Ash probably involved waking her, which wasn’t ideal. There was no need for anyone else to get drawn into the circus of crazy.

  “No it’s fine. I’m just going to go down to my room. I’m sure he won’t miss them.” My hands gripped the sweatpants tight, hoping I could just get to my room without having to make any more post-sex confessionals or flashing my ass. Hopefully achieving both was not out of the realm of possibility.

  “Alrighty then. Have a good night.” Megs waved her spoon in lieu of her hand. Her quest for ice cream more important than my undignified slink to the door.

  My hand hesitated on the doorknob, looking over my shoulder before I left. “Thanks, Megs. It was really nice talking to you. Oh and please don’t tell Troy. I’m a big girl, I can handle myself.”

  The one heart-to-heart Troy and I had shared about Jason was more than enough. Me, telling him I’d slept with Jase again, would not be happening. Ever.

  “Sure, sure. No problem. And if you ever need anything, you can talk to me if you want. It doesn’t have to go any further.” She gave me a warm smile. Maybe I could actually have some female friends and it be okay. Ash and Megs both seemed so genuine.

  “Thanks. Bye.” I gave her a smile on account my hands were occupied, the door, my shoes and the saga of Jase’s pants—a wave wasn’t happening.

  “Bye,” she mumbled, her mouth full of vanilla. The door closed behind me to the view of another spoon wave.

  Bed. I need a bed. This time, it had better be my own.

  ****

  “‘Promiscuous’ by Nelly Furtado does not sound like a fuck you song, Angie.” Rusty had walked into my hotel room all guns blazing. The text message with our new song suggestion that I’d sent in the early hours of the morning had obviously been received.

  “I like the song,” I yawned, my mind and body still tired from last night. No amount of sleep was going to change that. “I think it would be a good addition to the set.” And give a clear m
essage, which is exactly why I wanted to sing it.

  “Firstly, it’s a two person song.” He sat himself on the small sofa opposite the queen size bed. Our allocated rooms were tiny compared to the Power Station suite I had the pleasure of seeing. “So unless you’re planning on doing the half-half thing and flipping around on stage like a flapjack, I’m assuming you’re going to need me to do Timbaland’s part. Secondly, I thought we agreed we were doing the Beastie Boy’s “Hey, Fuck You.” I mean, it doesn’t get more prefect than that, it actually says fuck you in the title.”

  We had agreed to do the Beastie Boy’s song, both of us laughing hysterically at how perfect it would be. And it had been, even some of the lines were appropriate. Except then things changed and it wasn’t what I wanted to say anymore.

  “Rus, I did something bad.”

  Rusty blew out a long, slow breath and then stood up. “Give me a second to grab a shovel, and change my kicks. I just got these and I don’t want to get them dirty.” He pointed to his new boots, no doubt purchased with the sizeable advance we had all received.

  “You don’t need a shovel. I haven’t killed anyone.” Not unless you counted my common sense in which case, that was most definitely in need of a burial.

  “The shovel is to beat you over the head.” He rolled his eyes. “The song. You’ve either gone there or are going there. And in case there is any doubt as to where there is, it’s the fucking keyboard player for the band who is paying our ticket right now. And, he’s already broken your heart once before.” He shoved his hand through his hair for good measure. “So much bad in the situation, even I’m washing my hands of it.

  “You are such a drama queen, you know that? I went there, but it’s different now. I know what I’m getting into.” I could totally handle Jason this time around. No feelings involved at all. Unless you counted the sexual ones that still tingled in morning at the mention of his name, but they did not count at all.

  “Same thing is going to happen.” He gave me a hard stare. “I don’t even need a magic eight ball. It’s going to end the same way it started. Badly.”