Dream Me Off My Feet (Sex, Love, And Rock & Roll)

by Kisner, Stevie

  She met his eyes again. “And it worked. Too well, I’m afraid. Lately, spending so much time with all of you guys, I found myself thinking about you. Dreaming about you. Of being with you. And I was thinking that same thing, that I can’t do this to Paul. I love him, JT, I really do. We can’t do this to him, either. Who knows, if things don’t work out between him and I, between you and Julie, there might be a time for us to be an ‘us.’ But not now.”

  “How are we going to tell Paul? That playtime is over, I mean.”

  “I’ll tell him. I’ll say that I wasn’t cut out for threesomes, after all. They make me too sore. And I can’t stand the ribbing I get from the band when I walk funny.” She chuckled.

  JT downed his wine in two gulps. “Well, I guess I should be going, then, before he gets back. I’m glad we feel the same way. I wasn’t sure what to expect…” He reached over Cherie to set down his glass on the small table near the end of the sofa. “But, one thing before I go?” His arm was still over her shoulder, his face loomed over hers, his hand gripping the arm of the couch so tightly his knuckles shone white.

  “Sure, anything, JT.” Her voice was a throaty whisper, silk on sandpaper.

  He looked down into her eyes. “Just one more kiss? Please? Nothing more, I promise.”

  In answer, she put a soft hand to his face, her thumb tracing his cheekbone. Her eyes opened wider, the golden glow in them threatening to become fire.

  JT leaned his face into her hand, not wanting to break the contact with her skin. Captivated by her eyes, he slowly brought his face closer, not touching yet, just breath on skin. Feather soft, he slanted his mouth over hers, prolonging the sweet torture of this last kiss. He brushed over her again, then pulled back just a bit, drinking deeply of her whiskey-colored eyes this one final time from so close. In them, he found the emotions surely reflected in his own. Longing. Hunger. Sorrow. And also love, born of a friendship that grew beyond its bounds. Again, he lowered his face to hers, and this time claimed her mouth with the hunger of a starving man. The tip of his tongue played along her lips, coaxing, cajoling, teasing her into meeting him. She responded with the same fire, the same hunger. Their tongues danced a slow, intimate waltz in that place where the two met and became one.

  Cherie slipped her hand into JT’s hair, her other arm encircling his neck, pulling him closer. His breath rained hot fire on her cheek. He leaned his weight on her, pushing her back into the corner of the couch, no longer holding himself above her with his arms. He needed to feel her in his embrace; his hands slid behind her back, crushing her to his chest. He deepened the kiss, his tongue invading her mouth, needing to taste her, to be inside her one last time. She responded by opening her mouth further, to allow him as deeply inside her as he could be. With her small moan, JT felt his desire rising, but he didn’t care. It would go no further. They both understood that. He cast himself into the storm of desire, no longer trying to hold it back. Not this time. Her breath was coming harder, faster, as her passion grew under the tender caress of his lips. This time it was he who groaned, lost in the rapture of her mouth under his. Such sweet torture, this kiss.

  Cherie lowered her hands to his chest, then traced lightly down his sides, finally drifting around his bare back. His arms pulled her still closer; her hands went around to squeeze his backside. He purred low in his throat, wanting to have her completely under him, to grind himself into her again and again.

  JT realized he was about to cross the line from a kiss to something more, and knew it was time to stop. Gradually, he untangled his tongue from hers, slowly ending the intimate dance they shared. Cherie let the tip of her tongue wander across his lips, touching and teasing as her breathing slowed. With one last sweep of his lips over hers, JT inclined his head until they rested forehead to forehead. She looked up at him with wonder, the fire still smoldering in her eyes.

  “I really should go, Cherie. Before I can’t tear myself away from you.” He rose from the couch, adjusting the discomfort in his shorts. “Thank you for showing me what I never thought I’d find, what I was certain didn’t truly exist. That elusive love I write about in my songs, the kind that I thought was only for novels and fools.”

  He turned away and let himself quietly out the door.

  **the end**

  JT read the last paragraph again and sighed heavily. Romantic as a woman, that’s what I am. But maybe a little more realistic. I know love like that only exists in novels and songs. I’ve been kicked often enough to learn that lesson well. Still can’t help myself searching for it, anyway.

  He glanced to the alarm clock on the bedside stand, wondering if there were time enough for a nap; he was feeling suddenly sleepy and tired. And heavy, too heavy to even blink. He was acutely aware of gravity, feeling as if he’d soaked in a warm bath, then pulled the plug and stayed in the tub while the water spiraled slowly down the drain.

  Hundred-pound eyelids slammed down, the bound sheaf of paper flopped to his chest from fingers gone slack. Sleep claimed him, fast and deep.

  And he dreamed.

  Of checking lenses. Of packing a camera bag, rechecking the contents, then going back to add extra film, far more than could ever be shot in a two-hour concert. Of hoping someday to replace the sturdy Nikon with a digital SLR camera so running out of film would never be a problem again. Of remembering the black leather blazer, and wondering why it would be needed, but fishing it out of the back of the closet, anyway.

  Of intense denim-blue eyes and a sardonic smile that belied the passionate heart of an ever-hopeful romantic.

  Two

  He recognized the top of her head in the dim light; he’d seen it enough yesterday. She was looking down, fiddling with her camera settings, when he came out pretending to check his mic one last time before the band took the stage. “And I see Korina’s made it tonight,” he said, not into the microphone. He was looking right at her.

  She looked up with a huge smile. “Wouldn’t miss it,” she replied, wondering how in the world he knew her name. Security was tight; getting her photo pass to shoot this show started out difficult, blossomed into a nightmare, and then she lost all hope, hearing nothing for weeks. Until she received an e-mail from someone purporting himself to be JT Blackwood. She had doubted the validity of the note. “MajorTom1@gmail.com” could still be anybody; it was no secret that it was JT’s favorite song. Still, she had replied in the affirmative to the note which asked if she was the Korina who wanted the photo pass. The response she received was that the pass could be picked up, only by her personally, from Stuart Michaels, the tour manager, at the side of the stage after five pm, day of the show. Oh, and by the way, it said, bring a jacket.

  Strange request. “Did you bring that jacket, in case it gets chilly later?” he asked her from the unlit stage, still sotto voice.

  “Yeah, I did, actually. But I forgot it in the car, what with getting all the photo equipment.”

  “You’ve still got half an hour. You should go get it. I’ll send Stuart up to take you out and back in, fast.” Good, she didn’t seem shy or starstruck. He didn’t think she would be, after talking to her yesterday, and nosing around at her fan board posts and e-mails a bit. But it never hurt to check.

  For her part, Korina wondered what was up with the jacket, and why was he wanting to help her? It wasn’t like she was groupie-gorgeous; she was an older fan, not some young, firm, big-breasted video sleazebag; and she was very married. With a child. And both were there, with her, in front of that stage.

  Before he left to say a few casual hellos to semi-recognizable faces from their last tour (and some from just the last city they played), he gave her one final advisory. “Don’t leave right after the show,” he said. “Stuart will be out during the encore with passes for you, Mark, and Zach.” Now just how in the hell had he known who my husband and son were? What was he, psychic? And why me?

  True to his word, the tour manager appeared at the side of the stage and called her over. She was escorted out the
back entrance by a stagehand, who waited at the door while she hiked to her car and retrieved the thinly-lined black leather blazer she’d forgotten in the trunk. Instead of escorting her back to her seat, however, he took her to the photo pit, that buffer zone between the stage and the front row of seats, and told her to roam freely there during the performance.

  The band thundered onto the stage; the show was amazing, as was their standard. It was always more fun to shoot a concert than not, as the enormous lens on her camera usually attracted the attention of the performers. Tonight was no different, except that this time the band knew who she was, and strutted and posed more than usual. When Paul struck his almost-laying-on-the-stage-playing-the-guitar pose, it was directly in front of her. She shot an entire roll of that minute.

  In the dark cacophony between the show and the encore, she felt a tap on her shoulder while she reloaded for the final songs. Stuart slipped her three backstage passes, and had to shout into her ear to be heard. “Come over to Paul’s side of the stage after the band exits. Just wait a bit, for the crowd to clear, and we’ll bring you back. They all really want to meet you, for some reason.” Then he left.

  Zach was thrilled. It was his first-ever rock concert, and he got go backstage and meet the band. Not a bad feat for an eleven-year-old. Mark, on the other hand, knew that someday his wife’s talents would pay off. She was a great photographer, and an even better writer. He wondered at how the band seemed to know her, but let it go. They could check out anything they wanted to, he supposed. They had the money for background checks, and had probably done them. After all, they were quite famous, and tight security was a real concern since 9/11.

  While his invited guests waited, JT showered off the sweat from the hot spotlights. There were a few others the band had asked backstage as well; some were local radio personalities, some were the band’s website ‘regulars.’ He was certain they’d have many questions, not the least of which was how he recognized them. He wouldn’t tell them everything, of course; they might be put off, or even offended. He’d never reveal, for instance, finding them through their posts on the site’s forum (he wasn’t even supposed to admit to reading there) to obtain their e-mail addresses. Then it was a simple matter to track what they said, and to whom. Money helped — to pay for security checks and e-mail surveillance. He smiled to himself; no nutcases allowed, thank you.

  She intrigued him, this photographer. Her posts to the site were thoughtful, non-judgmental. Except for those few when a huge flame-war of posts broke out on the website, and closure of the forum was threatened by the webmaster. Those were obviously angry, but still not insulting. But there was that one….it was deleted after only a short time. He laughed out loud as he remembered it.

  A troublemaker had posted three ire-inducing comments; many flames later, he posted once more. It read: Gee, I only posted three times, and look what happened. Her unedited response had been: That’s like saying Gee, I only fired three bullets, and look what happened. The forum moderators tracked it down and deleted it a few hours later, but he’d already seen it. He rather wished they had left that one. It was snarky but not insulting. He appreciated the wit.

  Those were some of the attributes they were looking for, a sense of humor with a quick wit. Along with the ability to control one’s temper and be diplomatic.

  They were looking to fill a public-relations/senior editor-type position for their website. The webmaster did an okay job but his humor was dry, when he showed it at all. With any luck, this person would also be perfect to fit the bill as their new biographer.

  The list of possibles was short, and she was on that list. He looked forward to speaking with her again. Of course, that wasn’t the only reason. He’d also managed to track down her writing on a fan-based mailing list where she had posted two stories. One was quite funny, at their bassist Rafe’s expense. He’d printed that one, and shared it with the band. They’d all laughed, even Rafe, until he read the bit about falling off the stage being the crux of the story. Poor Rafe. The band never did let him live that down. And neither, it seemed, would the fans.

  But the other one… Ahhh, now that one he’d kept to himself. Quite steamy, it was. And, in some respects, true. There had always been much speculation about him and Rafe, but the truth was, he and Paul had been the ones to enjoy the threesomes. He wondered how she’d figured it out. Intuition was a wonderful thing when interviewing the band for a biography. Had to know the right questions to ask to get the sort of answer you’re looking for. He also wondered if any bit of those erotic scenes were written from personal experience. He gave a thought to just how married she was, and if he’d get a chance to find out. He pondered telling her he’d read her fiction, and what her reaction might be.

  “Stop thinking with the little head, Blackwood,” he mumbled, toweling off. Besides, she wasn’t even close to his type of woman. Short, curvy, muscular. He preferred slim to hourglass, big breasts to average. But, still, something about her imagination piqued his interest. Nope, this was strictly business, short-term at worst; long-distance long-term at best. But a little flirting and tension might improve the photos, and the interviews. He’d have to keep that in mind.

  By the time he walked in to this special party, all the rest of the band were there, save Clay, who wandered in a few minutes later. JT smiled inwardly to watch her son, who was obviously not shy. He was chatting up Paul like they were old friends. That was, until he spotted Paul’s son Steven and they started talking Xbox.

  He saved talking to her until last; the others he’d wanted to meet face-to-face were more from cordiality and curiosity. He’d made sure she wouldn’t feel left out. All the band knew of her possibilities, and their impressions were crucial. Of both her and Mark. Even if she was otherwise perfect for more than just taking those pictures at the charity match tomorrow, if her husband posed objections, she was out.

  They planned to pay her well enough that this would be her full-time job. After all, if she was to write their new biography, she needed the time to both interview and write. She also needed to be available to tour with them at times, be there during some of the recording, and be able to fly to Britain and Los Angeles on short notice. No, she wouldn’t have the inconvenience of a work-a-day job to interfere. If everything gelled as they hoped, she’d be a tag-a-long for at least a year. With Mark, Zach, and perhaps a tutor, whenever they wanted to come along.

  Stuart had quietly briefed Mark, and warned him that it could be a late night. Rather than keep their son up too late, he’d opted to stay for a while, then take him home. He’d said Kori was free to stay as long as she liked. Mark was also apprised that this was an interview, of sorts. He’d managed to conceal his excitement at the possibility of her being paid for what she did best and loved so well. Her natural behavior, and the men’s impression of it, was a crucial factor, he’d been told.

  Mark wandered closer to Kori, who was laughing at a silly tour memory Ian, one of the guitarists, had just related to her. “Zach and I will be leaving shortly,” he said. She was instantly alarmed; she wasn’t even close to being ready to leave, and had yet to talk to JT at all. He registered the panic on her features. “You stay. Stuart said they’d bring you home whenever. Apparently, JT wants to talk to you about something you wrote somewhere,” he soothed.

  That got the wheels turning in her mind; most of what she wrote on their website’s forum was safe from embarrassing her, but what if he’d read something else? Oh, fuck, what if he’s read the fiction? Maybe that’s why he insisted on the jacket — he’s going to take me outside to read me the riot act in private. Oh, shit.

  She felt her cheeks begin to burn. “I’ll just leave with you,” she said quickly. “Let’s go now.”

  They’d always shared a remarkable unspoken communication, and he realized what she was assuming. “It’s nothing bad. Trust me. You’ll regret it forever if you don’t stay. We’ll see you at home. Your jacket and camera are on the couch over there. I put an extra rol
l of film in the pocket. Now, relax.” He kissed her softly. “Zach, it’s time to go.”

  “Aw, Dad! But Steven and I were—”

  “Come here, Zach. Now.” Zach stomped over, head low and defiant.

  Mark whispered something in his ear, and he brightened immediately. “Okay.” He captured Korina in a tight hug. “Bye, Mom. See you in the morning,” he said with a smile as he bounced on his toes.

  She arched one eyebrow. “What did you promise him?”

  “Nothing.” Mark hugged her and this time whispered in her ear. “This is the opportunity of a lifetime. Grab it with both hands, and don’t look back.” They left without saying anything more.

  JT smiled his goodbye to Mark, who nodded and smiled in return, then walked straight over to Kori. “Hi. I’m JT.” He extended his hand.

  “Yeah, I know,” she replied with a smile that failed to completely erase her look of puzzlement. “Oh, I’m sorry. Korina Conner,” she said, taking the offered hand.

  “Yeah, I know,” he echoed. “Listen, I’ve wanted to talk to you about something. A few things, actually, and e-mail just wasn’t the right way. Would you mind if we went somewhere quieter?” He smiled then, and his emerald eyes held hers, lit with a convincing gleam.

  She was momentarily struck dumb. He still held her hand, and was aiming that smile, and those breathtaking eyes, right at her. “Uh, no,” she said, finally finding her voice. “I mean, no, I wouldn’t mind. Sure, we can go somewhere else. I’ll get that jacket you insisted on.” She was still feeling slightly off-kilter as she retrieved her belongings. Oh, shit, I’m in for it now. And I wonder just what Mark meant about the opportunity of a lifetime? What is nobody telling me here? She pulled on her leather jacket and slung the camera strap over her shoulder, certain she was about to be fed to the lions.