by Davis, Rhona
Krissy
Sat at a table outside a quaint little coffee shop on the outskirts of China Town, the wonderful California sunshine basks down on us.
I’ve ordered a small gingerbread latte, with a thin wedge of apple pie, and Jay’s ordered a flat white—no sugar—and no food. Maybe that’s how he keeps so lean and fit? He simply doesn’t eat—just liquor and caffeine to keep his perfect engine going.
“Not a breakfast person?” I ask him.
Staring down at his coffee, he shrugs. He’s stirred it over and over for the last minute or so, like he’s searching for something.
Although the setting is idyllic and peaceful, things seem a little tense between us. I ready myself for him to tell me that he wants me off the tour. To be honest it was a bit cheeky of Greg and Mon to bring me along in the first place. According to Monica, no one cleared it with the band. When I started freaking out at the news on the first night she just told me to keep a low profile and things would be cool as tour progressed.
Jay clears his throat, but keeps his gaze fixed on the mini whirlpools he makes in his coffee. “I’m sorry if you thought I was an ass in the bar.”
“It’s okay,” I quietly say, surprised and relieved that my original hunch was wrong. “I understand the pressure you must be under.”
He narrows his eyes, looking at me as if I’m talking shit.
Quickly, I correct myself. “I mean, obviously I don’t know what it’s like to be in a band, but—”
He raises his hand, cutting me off and saving me from digging a bigger hole. “It’s all right, I know what you meant. Just try not to pay any attention to my mood swings. Tours have a habit of fucking with my head.”
“It’s fine, honestly.”
He stops stirring his coffee, sets his spoon down on the table, and levels me with his eyes. “No it isn’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. I was a jerk.”
“True,” I say with a sarcastic grin.
He laughs.
My head tilts. “What’s funny?”
“You. That’s why I asked you to come along to the radio station. You know something? I think you’re a pretty cool girl. You give as good as you get and I like that. Take last night for example, asking what I did for a living . . .” He looks across the street. Orange and golds drench the white façade of each building. “Most girls just gush and nod like robots whenever I try and start conversation. It can get tiring after a while, you know?”
No I don’t.
I nod.
“You’re funny,” he says after a brief pause.
I scoff.
“Doesn’t hurt that you’re attractive too,” he adds.
My cheeks heat. I can’t believe he thinks I’m attractive. He must be screwing with me now.
Leaning forward, he stares right at me. He doesn’t blink. It’s kind of unnerving but I can’t stop staring back. The intensity in his dangerous green gaze is alluring, and so damn sexy. “I’m not embarrassing you, am I?”
I snort. “No.”
That’s a lie.
“Good. I’m only asking so I don’t cause more offense. I’m not great at subtly. If anything, I’m a little freaked out around fans.”
“What makes you think am I fan?”
He laughs. Sweet Jesus, that smile of his: perfectly straight white teeth that dazzle like pearls under the Cali sun.
“But I am,” I quickly add. “A fan, I mean.” Shit, why couldn’t I keep it light?
“Anytime I meet a fan, especially a girl, I find it a struggle to know what to say.”
“I would’ve thought you’d be used to all that, being a rich and successful rock star.”
“Ha, you’d think.” His brow furrows and he reclines back on his chair. Momentarily, his gaze shifts back to his coffee.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. I was just thinking about the past, about . . .”
“Yes?”
He shakes his head. “Maybe I shouldn’t be saying all this.”
Instinctively, wanting in, I reach for his hand. “Please. You can tell me.”
His eyes find mine again. There’s a serious look on his face.
I pull my hand away. Why did I reach for him like that? He doesn’t even know me.
Just before I say, or do, anything else that’ll make me look any more stupid than I already feel, the barista—a girl of around twenty—glides over from a neighboring table and asks us if we want anything else. I’ve barely touched my pie but I’m in no mood for it now.
Jay motions for me to go first.
I glance up at the waitress, the hazy sun making me squint. “Nothing for me, thanks.”
“We’re all good,” he tells her. “Cheers.”
She sticks around for a moment. “Excuse me,” she says to Jay, running a hand through her honey-blonde hair. “I don’t mean to bug you, but are you—?”
Jay nods and pulls out the napkin from beneath his cup in preparation for an autograph. He must’ve signed a million, so it’s like he’s on auto pilot. She never even had to ask. Excitedly, the barista hands him the pen from her shirt pocket.
After he’s scribbled his swirly signature on the damp, coffee stained napkin, he returns her pen along with the autograph. The girl’s face turns crimson. The way she’s making eyes at him makes me simmer with jealousy. It’s so stupid. This is what happens to Jay all the time. And I’m no different to this girl; I’m just a horny star-struck fan, like her.
As she saunters off, marveling at her new prized possession like she’s struck gold, Jay takes the first sip of his coffee and checks his wristwatch. “We should make a move.”
“Where to?”
“Check in at one. I got our manager to book a hotel for us this morning.”
“We’re not on the tour bus tonight?”
“Normally, but we’re in the City of Angels . . . might as well treat ourselves. Aren’t you hurting from sleeping on those shitty bus beds?”
I run my fingers over the back of my neck. “A little.”
“There you are then. I booked you and Monica a double room. I got another for Greg but I think he’s staying at his friend’s house. That okay with you?”
I nod, cradling my coffee cup in both hands and taking a sip of my smooth and creamy latte. The heart shape the barista made is still visible on the slowly evaporating skin of the latte. I bet she wished she made this for Jay.
“We’re staying in the Glades,” Jay announces with a smile. “Best hotel in LA.”
“That’s too much!”
He shrugs. “It’s no trouble.”
He takes out forty dollars from his wallet, leaves the cash on the table, pushes to his feet, and pulls on his mirrored aviator shades. I take one last sip of my tasty drink and follow him, trailing behind like a puppy dog.
As we walk the few blocks back to the tour bus, I try to wrap my head around the madness of meeting my ultimate crush, touring with him, and sharing a coffee under the glorious LA sun. I don’t know what I did to deserve this, but I must’ve saved up a lot of good Karma in another life. Either that or I’m just freakishly lucky.
I stay a good few paces behind him, just to check out that firm butt of his.
God, how I wish I could take his hand as we walk these beautiful streets—thread my fingers through his, lean my head against his broad and strong shoulder.
Damn it, Krissy, get a grip!
I bet he makes all girls feel this way. And I’m no one special to him. It hurts, but that’s the reality.
He glances back at me. “You good?”
I smile. “Fine.”
Another lie. I won’t be fine until my lips meet his. And that’s never going to happen.
7
Jay
First thing I do in my hotel room is dive onto the bed and stretch my limbs out like a starfish. I sigh with relief—it’s so fucking nice to lie on a bed that’s actually made for my size. I’m six-two and those bunks on the tour bus leave a hell of a lot to be desired.
; After a few minutes getting acquainted with sheer luxury again, I drag up the TV remote from a side table and flick on the TV: CNN, Fox, a sports channel showing highlights from a golf tournament, cheap porn on demand . . . I scan through the hotel’s repertoire of mind numbing TV for a few minutes before lazily sliding off the bed and pushing to my feet. Seven hours before we’re due to head to the venue for sound checks.
After sticking on some coffee, I hit the shower.
When adequately refreshed, I decide to check up on Krissy and Monica to see how they’re finding the plush five-star hotel. We have five rooms booked out on the top floor: a master suite (for me), some smaller, but still nice rooms for the band, and a double room for Monica and Krissy to share.
My hand hovers over the girl’s door: room 609, fourth down from mine.
Before I get the chance to knock, Monica opens up. “Hi,” she says cheerily. She doesn’t seem surprised to find me creeping around outside their room. Guess she saw me through the spy-hole. She has a small leather bag slung over her shoulder, and her shades rest on top of her head. “I’m just heading downtown to meet up with Greg. Wanna come?”
I look past her. “Krissy going?”
“Nah, she’s taking a shower and then resting up for a bit. I think life on the road is starting to take its toll on her, poor lamb. She’ll be good in a few hours.” Her lips curve into a slight smile. “Why don’t you wait inside? I’m sure she’d like to see you.”
“I’ll swing by later.”
Just as I begin to walk away Monica grabs me by the arm. “Don’t be silly. I bet Krissy would love to see you. She won’t be long. We’ve a few sandwiches from room service . . . help yourself while you wait.”
She pushes past me and motions me inside the room.
“How long will you be?”
She smirks. “Why?”
“Nothing. Just wondering.”
“I’m staying out. I’ll meet you guys at the venue. Greg’s coming.”
My brows meet. “Isn’t it his day off?”
“Yeah, but you know what he’s like . . . always wants to make sure things run smoothly.”
I smile. “True.”
“Anyway, I better run. See ya.”
“Yeah . . . see ya.”
Carefully, being as quiet as possible, I close the door as Monica treads away toward the elevators. The self-lock makes a sharp, clicking sound.
Scanning their room, I double take. It’s a mess. Clothes and towels are strewn everywhere. Various cosmetics, beauty accessories, and empty coffee cups with lipstick stains litter the mahogany dressing table like a slumber party gone wild. The bomb site makes the inside of the band’s tour bus look like something out of a ‘Queen of Clean’ documentary show.
A rock promo plays on the TV’s music channel—our first single.
Taking a seat on the edge of one of the double beds, I wait patiently.
It’s not too long before I hear the shower come to a stop. From within the bathroom I can hear Krissy hum, pretty badly, one of my songs. I hold in laughter. As cute as it is I’m not sure she has a place as a backing singer for the band—unless I decide start a death metal side project.
Steam billows out when the bathroom door finally opens. I brace myself.
First I see her toes—rose-red nail varnish—then the sleek shape of bare leg, and then—
“Greg!” she shouts.
I bolt upright. “Krissy.”
She clings tight to her bath towel, retreating back behind the bathroom door. Her face was a real picture of shock when she first saw me.
“What are you doing here?” she cries out. “Where’s Monica?”
I scratch the back of my head, more embarrassed for her than myself. “She let me in. She’s just gone to meet up with Greg.”
Slowly, she steps out of the bathroom again. Her hair is damp and held up in a messy bun, and her cheeks are almost as red as the cute nail polish on her toes.
“Monica invited me in and told me to wait,” I confirm.
She looks down briefly, probably considering what form of murder she’ll inflict on her best friend later, before glancing at me. “Give me a minute.”
“Sure.”
I sit back down on the bed as she finishes up.
One towel is all that separates her naked body from me. As I look around the room, trying to keep myself as occupied as I can, my cock stirs. Imagining myself charging into the bathroom, lifting her up over my shoulder, and throwing her down to the bed before I fuck her brains out—with that straight after the shower smell on her body—has me restless.
It’s been so long since I last indulged in good, hard sex. Jesus, holding out until the right one is probably—no—is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I must be close to fucking saint-dom by now.
The door inches open a few moments later and out comes Krissy, now dressed in a fuzzy peach bathrobe. She still has pink cheeks but at least she isn’t as vulnerable as she was when she was pressing a soggy, wet towel to her body.
I rise to my feet, well aware I could’ve just been sitting on her bed. I don’t want to torment the poor girl any further.
She glares at me. “How long have you been waiting?”
“A few minutes.”
“I didn’t hear Monica leave.”
I shrug. “Maybe she was in a rush.”
“Maybe.” She paces over to the dressing table and snatches up some hair dryer thing. Gazing at her reflection in the table mirror, she begins to scrutinize her angelic face. “What do you want anyway?”
“Is that any way to talk to the guy who put you up in this place?”
Pausing, she looks at me through mirror. “Sorry.”
I snort. “I’m just messing with you. Anyway, I came over to ask if you wanted to hear a new song.”
She turns to face me, a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “What, at the sound check tonight?”
“I was thinking somewhere more private.”
Her brows pinch.
“I have a guitar in my room,” I continue. “I’ve been working on a new tune. Fancy an advanced preview?”
“What . . . no one’s heard it?”
“Not a soul. Haven’t even shown the band.”
Her eyes round. “And you want me to hear it first?”
I nod.
“But . . . why?”
“My way of saying sorry.”
She clicks her tongue. “You’ve said that already. You don’t have to apologize again and again, Jay.”
“Then I am asking you . . . will you come over to my room? See if this song’s any good?”
She looks over at a pile of clothes heaped on the bed. “Okay. But I’ll need to get ready first.”
“No problem. Come over when you’re free.” I start toward the door. Just before I let myself out, I glance back over my shoulder. “Room 615.”
She nods, blushing again. I leave her to it and head back to my room.
I’ve no idea what I’m going play for her, no new song exists, but I’m hopeful I’ll come up with something that’ll make her drop her knickers in awe. I’m too damn horny to give a fuck about the past right now. Anyway, Krissy seems like a good girl, and seeing as I have a major case of blue balls, and she’s hot as hell, then I may as well have a little fun on this tour.
8
Krissy
Jay’s hotel suite is magnificent and at least twice the size of our room. One huge king size bed with fine French linens—duly noted—a plush suede couch on the far side of the room, fully stocked bar, a gigantic flat screen TV, and beautiful low lights that turn the vanilla shade of the walls a subtle golden hue.
There’s an intoxicating smell that wafts out from the half opened door of the bathroom: shower gel, soap, and expensive aftershave—a delicious manly cocktail that teases the nostrils and makes the pulse quicken.
Snatching up his acoustic guitar from the sofa, he takes a seat on the corner of the bed. “You’re a lucky girl,” he say
s, his mouth pulled up into a cute grin. “You’re about to hear the first song from our next album.”
“No way! This is a joke, right?”
“No joke. I should really get you to sign a non-discourse agreement, our manager would freak.”
I chuckle like a dizzy school girl and immediately feel silly for doing so. I just can’t help it. This isn’t how I normally act, but then again there’s nothing normal about any of this.
Jay rests the guitar across his lap and takes out a pick from his tight jean pocket.
“I must warn you,” he says. “It’s pretty rough. I only worked out the chorus a few minutes ago.”
“I don’t mind.”
Of course I don’t.
How could I?
I’m sure however rough he thinks it is it’s about to completely blow my mind. The boy could sing the telephone directory and it would be like high art to my ears. I’m not sure what I’m more infatuated with—him, or his music.
He pats the side of the bed.
I hesitate.
“Come on,” he presses. “There’s plenty of room.”
I follow his instruction and join him, making sure I’m not sat too close—fuck, I think I’d pass out if I felt his leg brush against mine.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Yep.”
As he starts playing, I freeze in awe. The way he gets around the guitar is just so effortless and natural. I’m sure he was born with it.
The song, stripped back to just a six-string, sounds soulful and folky. I’m sure when the band fleshes it out it will have that familiar fuzzy crunch I’ve always loved, but I like this much more. It’s bare. No tricks or gimmicks—just him, and the gorgeously rich tone of his voice that makes my heart ache every time I hear it.
He’s crooning about an unrequited love. Although the song is stunning, I almost laugh at how absurd that is. I doubt any girl would have the strength to resist him.
When he finishes, he sets the guitar gently down on the bed and looks at me for approval. “I told you it was rough.”
“It was beautiful,” I softly say, meaning it more than he’ll ever know.