Seven Minutes 'til Midnight

by Sunniva Dee

  Hailey presses between the lines, head held high, butterflies and my hair swaying in waves down her back.

  “Aishe just set a new trend,” I finally say. “We love her hair, so we do this.”

  Alarm Clock Boy’s eyes flicker with uncertainty, but then it returns to gleaming exaltation again. “No-o-o,” he murmurs, clutching his clock to his chest.

  “Ye-e-es,” I play along and jut my head toward Hailey. “Hey, girl!”

  She sways up to us. Acknowledges me with a nod before leaning against Troy. She curves a hand over his bicep, and with the other, she crooks her finger for him to bend down. She puckers her lips, getting ready to tell him something very important judging by her expression. Then, she says, “They totally just closed the shopping hall, so I’ve packed up our stuff.”

  Troy looks bewildered. Merch isn’t and has never been one of his duties. “Right. As long as you’ve told Troll, I guess.”

  Alarm Clock Boy is even more bewildered, stare going between Hailey and me. He examines every strand of her hair as if he’s trying to collect DNA from afar, eyes resting a little longer on her butterfly adornments.

  While she murmurs more insignificant crap to Troy, Alarm Clock Boy studies my hair. I pat it demonstratively; no feathers, no nothing here. I see the exact second when the lightbulb goes off in his head.

  “Oh-mi-God, you are Aishe Xodyar, aren’t you? Oh-mi-God, can you sign my alarm clock too?” He bats his eyelashes at Hailey.

  “What? No, she’s not!” Troy says with much more conviction than the last time.

  “Who, me? What are you talking about…” Hailey trails off, touches her chest, rounds her lips. “You wouldn’t want autographs from little me. I’m just the merch girl.”

  Ho-ly shit.

  “Aishe? That’s her?”

  Right, now, everyone hears it.

  “No, she’s not. Back off. Hailey, please leave.”

  “But I was just going to see if you need any help. You’ve got a lot of stuff over there.” Good grief, no way she’s as clueless as she looks? I have no idea how to feel about this. She’s nodding toward the boxes I’m sort of rummaging through, and she manages to do so without sparing me a glance.

  “She’s taking care of it,” Troy mutters, hiking his thumb at me. “That’s all the help we need, thank you.”

  “Who’s taking care of it?” she asks. She really, truly asks that, and the way she says it sounds freaking sly. By Troy’s reply, he hears it too.

  “Hailey, listen up.”

  “Yes?”

  “Get out.”

  TROY

  “Why are we keeping her on again?”

  “Troy, I know she’s an odd one, but she pulls customers to the stand. We’ll get someone new as soon as we return from Japan if she keeps being a bother.”

  “But did you see her today? She’s a fucking loose cannon!”

  “I know, man. She kept her mouth shut, though, right? She didn’t rat Aishe out, did she?”

  “Because I all but shoved her out the door.”

  Troll shakes his head, eyebrows even bushier than usual as he draws them together. “All right. I’ll have a talk with her. Give her a warning, okay?”

  “Yeah, and give management a call too.” I feel my nostrils flare with annoyance. “For God’s sake, how hard can it be to replace her?”

  We enter the little Greek place as the last of our group.

  “To be honest”—Troll snaps his fingers pointing toward a sectioned-off area in the back of the restaurant—“I put out feelers after the Boston incident, and so far, all they’ve found is the guy Moriculus fired a few weeks ago. I checked with them as to why, and he partied at work, so no.”

  “Yeah. Shit.”

  “Tro-o-oy! My man!” Emil shouts like we don’t see each other twenty-four-seven.

  “Hey-y-y,” I simper. “S’up ma man?”

  “You freaking rocked it tonight! What’s with the hop on the throne? Where the hell did that come from?”

  “Eh.” I lift my shoulders in a shrug. “YouTube, ya know. Someone did it. I copied it. People liked it, huh?”

  “You’re such a showman!” Hailey shouts, clapping and lifting her wine. “I’ve never seen anyone jump up on their drummer stool like that and still play the drums like nothing happened. So wild—I thought you’d fall off or something. Cheers for a super-incredible performance!”

  “Wild, huh?” Zoe says, firing her up some more.

  “Heck yeah, it’s all over YouTube already! So good. You guys, I just need to say this, and I know I’m just, like, only the merch girl and what-have-you, but I’m so happy to work for you. All of my friends are so jealous it’s not even funny.” She giggles and bumps shoulders with Bo who’s so not a shoulder-bumper.

  I snort; as clueless as she is sometimes, the girl’s entertaining.

  The table is thirty people strong. Food’s been ordered remotely, and we’re rounding off the night unhealthily with a last celebratory supper in the U.S. before we head off to Japan. The whole crew is here, the pretties, management, and the guys.

  “What’s the status?” Troll asks Bo, tipping his head toward the kitchen.

  “The owner is chasing down non-alcoholic beers and fake champagne for Emil,” Bo replies, “but the appetizers are on their way.”

  “Nice,” I say, while Troll mutters that he let them know way in advance about the band’s non-alcohol needs and this should not be happening.

  The room is shaped as a long, narrow rectangle. I’m trying not to creep-stare at Aishe at the end of the table where she’s sitting with our new sound guy, Zap, and Rob, my drum tech. I wish they weren’t boxing her in. Meet-n-greets are always crazy, and I didn’t get to talk to her again after it.

  I take the last seat next to Elias. He fist-bumps me. “More of the throne hops, for sure! Japan’s going to go crazy for that shit.”

  “Only if I get a platform,” I joke.

  “Oh! You want a platform, Troy?” Emil shouts, the others joining in a cheer. “Oh hell yeah, we’ll build up that damn drum kit of yours, and you’ll be, like, the fucking god looking down on all of us! Shit yeah!”

  “Just kidding,” I say, because he’s much too excited.

  “Hmm.” Bo rubs his chin the way he does when things are definitely happening, cool eyes flowing up the table and meeting me. “You good with that?”

  “With what? Seriously, man, it was a joke,” I say. “I’m not going to turn into the clown of the band.”

  “Yeah, no, you’re not funny, but you’re the acrobat, right? Oh this is so fucking happening,” Emil belts out, sending a bright stare at Bo, the sane half of the artistic duo that started Clown Irruption.

  “Troll, can we get him a riser in Japan?” Bo’s voice is low.

  “Yeah, no problem, Boss,” Troll replies.

  I groan. This business is messed up. You can rent whatever you want on hours’ notice on a different continent, but you can’t find a trustworthy merch girl to bring over from the U.S.?

  “Troy. Really.” Bo sends me one of his ice-country looks. “You should’ve had a riser a long time ago. You ready for it?”

  I tip my head back, meeting his stare. “If the band wants it.”

  “The band wants it,” Bo confirms.

  “Hell yeah, dude!” Elias.

  “Damn straight.” Emil.

  “Done deal,” Bo says. “All right, down to business. We have a couple of announcements tonight.”

  Excited ooohs follow. Some preemptive clinking of glasses. Hailey falls backward on her chair and scrambles back up again, pulling ice out of her cleavage. Wait. Her cleavage? The girl doesn’t have boobs—I know this first-hand—and wears normal chick tops with regular necklines. But that’s not what she’s wearing tonight.

  I give her a onceover. She�
��s got some black, really tight little thing on with ropes in the front. It looks like one of Aishe’s tops, and it presses her chest flat, leaving a little wrinkle between her tits. It’s so low, I’m sure her nipples are about to fall out.

  A crew guy helps Hailey back on her chair, eyes roving to that little wrinkle. All right, I get that, but what is this—is she idolizing Aishe or something?

  Aishe is unperturbed by the commotion on Hailey’s side of the table. Calmly sipping her wine, her attention slips away as soon as I find her.

  “We’re adding a song to the setlist,” Bo says.

  “Which one?” someone asks.

  “A really cool one?” Hailey interjects, eyes swimming. She smirks and winks at me.

  Bo lets out a chuckle. “Some of you’ve heard us play it. We used to call it ‘Unbreak my Soul.’”

  “Then, thanks to Troy’s fucking insane drums, we changed it to ‘Run with the Horses,’” Emil cuts in, lifting Zoe’s hand in victory.

  “Or you called it that, and it didn’t stick,” I say, “Because seriously, what is this—the tour of Black Beauty?”

  “It should’ve stuck,” Emil says. “It was perfect!”

  Bo crosses his arms, waiting for us to run out of commentary.

  “So did you land on a new title?” I ask Bo. I even tip my head to the side so the rest of the table can be in on the suspense.

  “I did.” He skews out a laconic smile. “And I believe you approved it. It’s called ‘The Mask,’ and I have a feeling about this tune with the new arrangement.”

  “So, this song used to be like fucking without climaxing, but then Troy got us the climax!” Emil hollers.

  People burst into laughter.

  “It’s our next hit—I just know it!” Emil adds.

  Beside me, Elias starts a round of high-fives. “Everybody, time to thank Troy! Say it: ‘Thanks for the climax, Troy,’” he moans.

  People obey in a variety of shouts and moans. It makes me chuckle, until Hailey’s voice joins in, a pitch above the others. “Thank you for all the orgasms, Troy-y-y!”

  My senses draw to the one woman I don’t hear, and when my eyes find Aishe’s, they’re made of shiny, impassionate coal. I swallow. Force myself back into the general enthusiasm of the table and accept the platters of appetizers being passed around. And the whole time, I feel her mood falling.

  AISHE

  I’ve never missed anyone as much as I missed Troy tonight at the Greek place. Smooth and calm, he sat there, fresh white t-shirt against the beautiful brown of his skin, safari-greens never far from me as he kept tabs on the politics of the table and tried to avoid crazy Hailey.

  Now, I’m back in my room, relieved to have it to myself again. And not relieved to have it to myself. I’m burning up, and I need to do something about it.

  I used to take what I needed when I needed it. Finding men was never hard, and the chance of catching the love fire from one-night stands was zero to none.

  Troy’s room is next door, and I feel his presence through the wall. He’s not making a sound. No TV, no music, no drumming. We came up here on the same elevator, so I know he’s there.

  I’m burning. Burning. Burning.

  Someone knocks on his door.

  Hailey’s voice. It’s pleading.

  I’ve been like that before, in such a similar situation. Just, it wasn’t Troy, and the door didn’t shut with the girl stomping away unhappily.

  It’s midnight. I wonder if he would shut the door on me?

  It’s not good when I slip my gown on and leave my room barefoot. I’m dipping the love fire in kerosene when I knock quietly on his door, hyper-conscious of how I’m not wearing any underwear.

  I hear his fingers tap against the door first. I picture him leaning his hands against the wood as he stares out through the peephole. He can’t have locked the door, because it gives without a sound as he opens it and stands there.

  “Aishe.” He whispers my name with the same longing I have in my throat. His gaze flickers as he waves for me to come in.

  I don’t know what to say.

  My head and my heart know better than to be here, but my body—I’m here for my body. The Drago Fuoc needs a matchstick dropped into its kerosene.

  He doesn’t make excuses for how he’s dressed. I’m the intruder into his boxer-brief haven of tan muscle and dreadlocks.

  I’m scared, I mouth and lift my arms to him. He accepts me like I knew he would. Burrows his nose into my hair and sucks in the smell of me. I moan, and that’s what he needs to lift me off my feet and cradle me to his bed, lower me, sink down over me.

  Don’t be scared, he whispers, and his kiss is exactly what I need, not a matchstick but soft assurance of desire, of a build with kindness and gentleness, the promise of all-consuming pleasure, of the kind it was both times with him for me. I’ll do nothing you will hate.

  I open my gown, and I give him my breasts. They tighten under the magic of his lips. I arch up to him, moaning, begging in ways I have done in my head for days.

  I want to make you happy. His words are at my ear, and my eyes fill with liquid. I’m full of courage when I open my legs for him, let warm fingers find me, caress my folds, pull them apart so he can draw the slickness I have for him out. His pleasure is mine when he groans at the sensation.

  There are stars in the sky outside. I know this even though the curtains are drawn. His mouth is on me. Strong arms lift my butt off the mattress. I’m his best meal, and the stars enter the room as I scrunch my eyes shut, writhing in climax.

  It’s not enough. I need him so fully. My hands are greedy, dragging over taut thighs that ripple with my touch. I pull his briefs off—

  “Oh God,” he hisses when I use both hands around his cock, feeling it hard and pulsing in my hands. I drag over the tip of it, a preemptive droplet making it even silkier. He smells like musk and man and spices when I lick it and slowly allow my mouth to feast on him.

  When I’m ready, I spread myself over him. He’s my mattress, heaving with desire beneath me. Lips parted, this beautiful man waits for me—this man who’s been waiting for me for so long. His gaze doesn’t leave me while I plaid our hands and straighten them above his head.

  His lips tremble when I kiss him again, and a lump in my throat grows. We’re made of hips and hands and touch, and he’s rubbing against me, right where I need him so much.

  “You don’t still my fire,” I whisper, and in a rush, he grabs me, strong arms around my waist. Suddenly, I’m on my back, and for a second, he hovers over me.

  I pull him toward me.

  “Let me, and I will still your fire, my moixcha.”

  What did he say? Soft, hard, blunt, the crown of him against my entrance is almost too much. Stars twinkle behind my eyelids again. They’re a rush around me, about to pull me under. I need him inside of me. Now, I need him. I chain myself to him, my heels digging into his buttocks as I pull him closer, moaning, opening, getting ready for him to fill me with a pleasure so complete I’ll never forget—again.

  Moixcha. Is that what he said?

  Troy called me “forever-love.”

  The slight shift of him as he steers himself over my cleft, moaning with the sexiest impatience I’ve ever heard. Warm, slick with passion, he wants to give it all to me and take it all in return.

  “Troy. I can’t do this.”

  His body stills over me. His breath is ragged with need, thighs quivering with the urge to continue. I’m ready for his anger, but all I get is a whispered, “Okay.”

  Troy falls to the side of me. His pulse sings in his exhales as he gets himself under control. In less than a minute, intense desire sinks to tenderness in his touch. I can’t look at him at first, while I control my own reaction to what I just did.

  “You’re so beautiful, Aishe,” he murmurs.

&
nbsp; “I did it again, didn’t I?” I say, letting my eyes leak after all.

  “You did nothing you didn’t have the right to do.” He makes no effort to cover himself as he lies there, shiny and gorgeous, the epitome of anything I’d ever want in my bed. And here I am rejecting him. His cock is still half-erect, waiting for me, a long, thick animal that could pounce on command.

  I’ve got less control over myself than Troy does. The disappointment of my body is like angry embers concentrated in my abdomen, my vagina, my thighs. It screams for the real thing, but all my heart wants is for us to run away and cry somewhere safe.

  “We’ll never get it right,” I chuckle in despair. “First, we did it all. But under false premises.”

  He gazes at me waiting for more.

  “I was going to get you back, taking your pleasure and not giving you mine, at the video shoot. I was in control. Completely. And now, look at this mess?”

  Troy’s smile rises slowly. “I’m looking, and it’s a beautiful mess.” His eyes run over my bare form with desire-free appreciation. They trail over the gown I tossed to the side. My breasts feel heavy from his attention. The moisture at the apex of my legs goes cold under the A/C, another sensory impact he ignites.

  He lays his head down to the pillow, a hand still around my waist in a loose embrace. Slowly, he strokes circles around my belly button, each shift full of gentle respect. I want him to do this. I want him to touch me.

  I don’t think I can leave this bed and scurry back where I came from, tail between my legs like I should.

  “Do you want to talk?” he asks. “You know I always do. With our bullshit past, I’m a sucker for anything that can help.”

  I blow my mouth up, keeping the air there while I decide. “About this—what just happened?” Arching my head into the pillow, I concentrate on the small cracks of the vertebrae in my neck at the move.

  “If you want to. Anything.”

  That thumb around my belly button.

  “Okay.” I blow out another breath. “You remember the other night, when we were talking about the fire love?”