For seven years this has been my life. Getting ready for a gig comes naturally to me. When it’s time I shower, straighten my hair, and put on what has evolved into my standard uniform, knowing my fans will expect it. As I pull on my top, I feel myself starting to slip into my stage persona, a process that will be complete as soon as I pick up my guitar. For now, the adrenalin starts buzzing, my nerves getting frayed. But all that will be focused into energy once I start to play.
We head off to the club, arriving an hour before the gig starts. Now earning more money we’ve roadies to set up for us, but I like to check where they’ve positioned my guitars. Mickey sorts out his drums making tiny adjustments, and Joe and Ben check out the mics. Then it’s time for a sound check. Travis checks it out from the back, and Tim, working the mixer, reacts to his thumbs up and thumbs down and other hand signals that they’ve practiced over the years.
Then, all set, we disappear out the back and partake in our favourite tipple, ready to make our entrance when we’re announced. It’s all so normal to me, just like any job. I’d gone through the motions on autopilot, only remembering at the last moment that there’s going to be an extra person in the audience tonight. Will I notice him? Or will he be just one of the crowd. He’s tall, he might stand out. Or he might be hidden by the lights. I shiver with cold, or is it anticipation?
With butterflies tingling, I respond to our call, walking out onto the stage and picking up my Strat.
And like that, I’m in character. The house lights dim, then spotlights come up on the stage, finding first Mickey who gives a four beat. Then a light comes on me and I let out a blistering riff, my solo entrance to one of our own songs. More lights come on, Rory lets that bass fly, Liam warms up with the sax, Ben strums out the rhythm, then we all stop.
Joe takes centre stage, and howls out the start of the song.
The crowd goes wild, jumping and roaring. And singing along. I nod toward Ben, it’s a good audience tonight, many are regulars already familiar with our playlist.
Our first set’s a blast, the audience enjoys it. As promised, Joe plays to the women, flirting away. I can see he has his eye on one girl at the front and won’t find it surprising if he disappears later on tonight. Whether he’ll take her home or just see to her around the back of the club is anyone’s guess, but I’ve learned not to go looking for him if he goes out of sight. Yuck, I’ve been treated to far too many intimate views of my fellow group members over the years. Nope, don’t want to go there again if I can avoid it.
We take a fifteen-minute break, time to pop to the loo and to down another drink.
“Have you seen him, yet?”
“Sorry, Mickey, no. Can’t see much from up there. He’s not at the front.”
Liam taps my arm, “He definitely said he’d come?”
I raise my shoulders. “Sounded that way to me. But you never know, something else might have come up.” I frown, “He’s a busy man.” Is he at his club? Unable to pull himself away from a sub?
“Hey slackers, time up!” Ben’s waving us over and we’re back on stage.
We play through some oldies and then a favourite of mine, our cover of AC/DC’s Whole Lotta Rosie, I love the guitar solo that leaves me all but exhausted. Another couple of our own songs, and then Guns ‘n’ Roses’ Sweet Child of Mine. Now Ben steps forward and we play off each other. I’m having such a great time I’ve totally forgotten we’re supposed to have an addition to our audience tonight. I’m playing to the crowd, hyped by their energy as they get wound up by ours. It’s a symbiotic relationship between band and audience, each feeding off the other.
Mickey’s thrown off his T-shirt; he might be like a brother to me, but even I can appreciate his muscles working as he hammers at those drums, sweat glistening in the lights as his pectorals flex. He throws back his head and beats down hard.
Liam’s making that bass sing, Rory’s keeping up with the sax, then leads into his solo, giving it everything he’s got. Ben’s gritting his teeth in concentration, Joe’s clapping in time before taking up the vocals once more.
I come alive on the stage, I own it, it’s mine.
It’s the end of our set, but not the end of the night. The music comes to a halt, Joe’s vocal’s fade away. The crowd roars for more, stamping their feet and shouting. We give them a moment, then Mickey hits those drums, counting me in again and for the encore we ramp it up another notch.
Chapter 7
Jasim
I must have changed my mind a dozen times about whether or not to come tonight. It would have been easy enough to refuse to present Anarchy Rules’ case to my brother. I don’t owe this girl anything. Or I could simply ask for their tapes. Or look them up on YouTube.
But as I finish with my business for the day, I decide to go along, if only to confirm what I hope I’ve convinced myself of. That this girl means nothing to me, and never would. It’s just my memory playing tricks with me, that night and her softness up against my hard cock.
She’s too young, and as far removed from my lifestyle as it’s possible to get. And she can’t have anything to offer me I wouldn’t be able to find anywhere else. Seeing her again, seeing her innocently playing her girly music, will probably kill my desire stone dead. I’ll go, get her out of my system, and hopefully, if the gig doesn’t end late, come back to the club and find a sub to play with. Someone able to cope with my tastes. Yes, I’ll go, get her out of my head. If the band’s good enough, there could be mutual benefit if Kadar agrees to hire out the harem. If not, well, I’ll have to let them down gently. And having seen them play, I’ll have fulfilled my commitment.
I’ve worked late, not having seen any point in getting to the gig as it starts. I only need to hear a few songs to make an assessment. As such, I have difficulty finding somewhere to park, ending up a couple of streets away. The car park and roads around the club are jam packed. Perhaps they are good enough to attract quite a crowd, unless there’s something else on at another pub.
I can hear the music from outside, loud heavy rock thumping. It stops me in my tracks, it’s not what I expected at all. I push through the doors, and pay my entrance fee, being given the once over by an enthusiastic bouncer wearing a shirt with Anarchy Rules blazoned across the chest. I must pass sufficient muster, as he waves me on through. I go past the cloakrooms, and then into the club.
The band’s up on the stage. Here at the back I can hear, but not see them clearly. The crowd’s leaping and jumping, the atmosphere electric. Even after only a couple of minutes I can hear how talented all the musicians are. But I want to get closer, I need a visual.
I start pushing my way through, my height and build helping ease my path. The crowd seems good-natured, enjoying their evening out, and I don’t have much trouble getting to the stage. And as soon as I can see, I stop dead in my tracks, my eyes widening at the sight in front of me. As a searing guitar solo rips through the air, the guitarist steps forward, taking centre stage. A spotlight falls on her as she gyrates and grinds in time with the music she’s playing. My mouth falls open as I gaze on in disbelief, hardly recognising the shy, innocent girl who had shared my bed that night.
Janna’s wearing a red satin corset, decorated with black lace, her small breasts accentuated by the garment. Her legs are encased in skin tight black leather jeans, with high heeled boots which come up to her thighs. Her eyes close as she picks for the high notes, her instrument held over her crotch and her plectrum strumming in an almost erotic display. The way she’s dressed, the command in her posture. She has the audience under her dominion, and in the palm of her hand. She controls the crowd like a dominatrix, using her guitar in place of a whip.
“Fuck, she’s hot!”
Despite the volume of the music, I pick out appreciative comments out from the men standing around me, and I suddenly get the urge to push them all from the floor. They’ve no right to leer. She’s mine! What?
It’s hot and stuffy, my brow’s getting sweaty, and as I wipe my
hand over my forehead I realise my cock’s throbbing and hard as rock. I’m no different from those surrounding me, she’s affecting me the same as every other man here. There’s a magic about her, a presence on the stage that blows me away. She looks ageless and wanton, but also someone money couldn’t buy. She’s untouchable, unless she wants to be touched.
“I’d worship at her fucking feet.”
“Fuck, look at that hot mouth.”
The coarse comments continue, making my ears blaze. And then the spotlight pulls out, highlighting the rest of a band. The sax player steps forward and carries the tune on. But my eyes ignore him, focusing only on Janna. Suddenly the room feels airless, I’m finding it hard to breathe.
And then the music ends, the drummer finishing up with a last final beat. The crowd roars for more, but it must be the last encore. As the band members step away from their instruments, waving to the crowd, for the first time I take a look at the rest of them. They’re all striking looking men, from the drummer who’s casually swinging his arm over Janna’s shoulders and making me burn, to the bassist and sax player who look so similar they have to be twins, the rhythm guitarist is smiling and grinning, and the vocalist is preening in front of the women who are crowding the stage.
But Janna looks tired. Oh, no one else seems to notice, but I do. I want that fucker’s hand off her, I want her in my arms. I want to protect her from the lewd men trying to get near her. I want…
She’s too young for me.
Watching as they leave the stage I make two decisions. The band is good, there’s no questioning that. Certainly talented enough that there could be mutual benefits in letting them film in the Palace of Amahad, so I’ll contact Kadar on their behalf. And the second is, whatever this strange attraction to this girl/woman I have, it will never be acted on. She’s not, and will never, be mine. And that is that.
But fuck me. The sight of her tonight stirs something inside me, and I feel the beginnings of a smile on my face. She’s playing a role. It’s clear not one of the men around me understand who she really is. No one knows, except for me. They think she’s a Domme. I know better.
Softly huffing a laugh, I make my way through the throng that’s now heading back to the bar as the entertainment is over. It’s easier now the way’s clearing as I head in the opposite direction, toward where the band members disappeared. Reaching a stage door, I find there’s a group waiting, and Janna and her band are chatting to their fans. I stand at the back, my eyes fixed on her face. I see fatigue lines on her forehead, and again wonder why it only seems to be me that sees it. She’s dead on her feet, but still acting her part.
Suddenly her eyes look up and meet mine. Then drop to the floor under the intensity of my gaze. Now she’s pushing her way through, and coming to my side.
“You came.” It’s a statement, and there’s pleasure in it. Her voice gentle and sweet, so at odds with her clothes.
“You look tired.” It’s not perhaps the best opening, but someone should care for her.
My words have surprised her, and she brushes it off with a laugh, “It’s draining,” she explains, and it’s clear to see she gives her all to the crowd. And they’re giving nothing back, still wanting more of her.
“Janna, can I have your autograph?” A burly, tattooed man tries to push between us, but as his eyes meet my glare, he takes a step back.
“Mickey, this is the sheikh,” Janna pulls at the drummer’s sleeve. When she gets his attention, he waves above his head, and two men approach, wearing Anarchy Rules shirts. They begin corralling the band’s admirers away, and I take it they’re roadies or something.
Once a space has cleared, the drummer reaches out his hand, “Mickey Carey,” he introduces himself as he tries my grip with his fingers. We come out about equal. “Come on back, we can talk.”
He taps his colleagues on their shoulders, and one by one they disappear through a curtain. I’m led down a short corridor, and into a tiny room. Janna puts down her guitar and throws herself wearily on a well-worn couch with a loud sigh.
“Fuck man, that was a good one!” The bass player takes a towel, rubs it over his face, and then drapes it around his neck. “Anything to fucking drink in here?”
One of the men wearing a band shirt says, “I’ll get some beers from the bar.” Noticing me standing there, he raises a quizzical eyebrow, “Do you want anything?”
“Thank you. A beer would be great.”
Janna looks up surprised, “I thought Arabs didn’t drink?”
It’s a reaction I’m used to, so I toss her a grin, “When in Rome and all that.” Neither I nor my brothers are teetotal, except when we need to be in our homeland.
“So, you’re Sheikh Jasim?” The vocalist approaches me, “Joe Bradshaw.”
Another man looks up. “I’m Liam Hamilton, and this,” he breaks off to put his arm around his mirror image’s neck, pulling him to him and ruffling his hair, “This is my younger brother, Rory.”
Rory thumps him in the chest as he breaks free and growls, “By two fucking minutes,” I take it it’s an old joke, as he doesn’t wait for his brother’s reaction and continues to me, “Pleased to meet you, man. And this here’s Sunny. She’s mine.” Sunny presses into his side, and nods at the sheikh.
My attention returns to Janna in time to see her stiffening. Does she fancy him? Is she jealous? But somehow, I don’t think it’s that.
“Ben Price,” the last man introduces himself, and is the first to ask, “What did you think of the set?”
I hadn’t heard much as I’d arrived so late, but it had been enough, “You’re good.” It’s sufficient answer for now, and the praise elicits smiles all around.
The beers arrive, and for a few minutes we busy ourselves grabbing bottles and opening them. I take a swallow, the chilled lager a welcome relief from the heat of the room I’d just come from, and give them a few moments to wet their throats, realising if it had been hot for me, it must have been doubly so for the band.
Janna drains her bottle, then rests her head back. She’s looking at me quizzically.
“You play well, Janna. I must say, I’m very impressed.” I nod toward her, then turn my head to address the rest of the band, “You all do. You’ve got an energy and vitality on stage. You are very visual. I can see how a music video would work.”
“In the harem?” Mickey gets straight to the point, and his posture suggests he speaks for the group.
I appreciate his directness, “The decision will have to come from my brother, the emir. But for my part, I’m happy enough to recommend it to him.” A chorus of ‘That’s great’ and ‘Thanks mate’, comes to me, and I shrug it off. “Tell me how I can reach you, and I’ll contact him when I can.”
As Mickey hands me his business card, I slide it into the pocket of my jeans. It’s then I notice Ben, the rhythm guitarist is looking at me, his brows creased. I turn to face him.
“You don’t look like a sheikh, man.” He’s shaking his head.
Giving a chuckle, I know what he means, my jeans and leather jacket were worn to blend in. My normal Armani suit would have stuck out like a sore thumb. And I’m here without security tonight, enjoying being incognito. “Looks can be deceiving.” And as the words leave my mouth, I can’t prevent myself from throwing a look toward Janna, and raising my brow. She catches my expression, and her cheeks go bright red.
It seems no one has noticed our silent exchange.
“Well, I for one am fucking glad that you came tonight, er, Your Excellency. And owe you thanks for helping Janna the other night.” Reminded of my title, Mickey seems at a loss as to how to address me.
“Just call me Jasim,” I tell him, while knowing I’d like to hear the word Master out of Janna’s mouth. Then I remember my resolve. “And it was my pleasure to help a woman in distress.” I turn to the woman in question, “Are you fully recovered now? No lingering headache?”
“I’m fine, thank you Jasim.” A lingering pinkness still tinges he
r cheeks, as though she doesn’t want attention drawn to herself.
“Well, we’re about to pack up and spilt. Jasim, can I have a word with you? I’ll walk you to your car?”
It’s Mickey, the drummer who’s dismissing me, but that’s fine. The sooner Janna gets out of here and gets some rest the happier I’ll be. I nod at them all, “I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. Kadar’s a busy man, so don’t be surprised if it takes a few days.”
“Just grateful you’re going to put our case forward.” Ben’s the first to shake my hand, the others follow suit. Then as Mickey holds the door open, I precede him out.
“Where are you parked?”
“Couple of streets down. You pull in quite a crowd.”
In the light of the carpark I see pride flush his face, “Yeah, this is one of our favourite venues. Been playing here on and off since we started. They’re a good lot here.”
“You get any trouble when you play?” Is Janna exposing herself to danger?
“Not often. Some get a bit rowdy, but Janna and Joe know how to play it down. We vary the set, take some of the energy out if it’s riling them up too much. And if it’s a new place, well, we don’t go back.”
We’re just making polite conversation, he hasn’t yet got to the point. Suddenly he stops, he draws out a packet of fags and offers one to me, I dismiss it with a shake of my head. Smoking is not one of my vices. Holding a flame to the tip, he lights it, and it glows orange in the late-night air.
“I see the way you look at her.” Now we’re getting to the gist of it. “She says you didn’t touch her.”
“She’s telling the truth.”
He sucks in and blows smoke out, “Look, Jasim. I know who you are.”
Casting a glance his way, I wonder in what capacity. “I work on behalf of Amahad.”
“I’m not talking about that.”
Oh.
“Look, let’s be men about this. You own a BDSM club. And I’ve seen you at others.”
Regarding him more closely, I wonder if I’m noticed him before, but I don’t recognise him. Mind you, he might look different wielding a whip. “Dom?” I query.
Dark Horses: (Blood Brothers #5) Page 7