Rocking Hard, Volume 2

by Samantha M. Derr

  "Gabriel?"

  Michael's eyes were very intense as they looked at him. "Yes. You're my Gabriel."

  Jackson knew that all the band members were named for biblical angels, but he was surprised to get a name—especially of a well-known angel.

  "Do you know anything about Gabriel?"

  Jackson half-shrugged. He'd been to Catholic school, but it wasn't exactly Angels and Demons 101. "He's an archangel."

  Michael nodded. "He's the head of the archangels and the angel of truth. I'm Michael, the commander of God's army. This is Raphael, the angel of healing, our lead guitarist." The muscular man beside him smiled in greeting.

  "This is Sammael, the angel of death, our second guitar." A man with dark eyes and black hair nodded to him.

  "This is Uriel, the light of God, our drummer." A man with a blue Mohawk jerked his chin at him.

  "And this is Ariel, the elemental angel. She plays keys." A young, androgynous woman smiled at him.

  "And you're our Gabriel."

  There was something about the way he kept saying it that made Jackson feel like he was looking at the big picture but didn't have his contacts in. "It's an honor to meet you all."

  Michael leaned forward, that intense look in his eyes. Then he grinned, revealing the pointed eyeteeth he was known for—among other things. The producers excused themselves and Michael pulled out a chair with his foot. "Have a seat, Gabriel."

  Jackson did, clinging to his guitar like a security blanket. He was in the presence of Fallen Angel, of Michael. He was going to tour with them. His brain wasn't functioning; he couldn't process the sheer impossibility of what had just happened.

  "The Second Circle of Hell is all about lust," Michael said. "The forbidden, wanting what you can't have. It's about being damned for all eternity for coveting something pure, something perfect, something people only dream about touching—and you possessed it, made it your own. Its white light may have balanced the dark in you, but the darkness in you tainted its light."

  Jackson nodded slowly. It was sex, pure and simple, but the way Michael described it made it seem like something more, something so much more than he had ever known.

  "Angels are supposed to be these pure, perfect beings—but they're not, not always. Some of them think and feel. And if you can feel, you can want. And when you want …" His eyes were glowing. "You don't always want what you're supposed to. That's what this tour is about. Wanting, needing. Desiring to possess something that is more than you, better than you are. And then paying the consequences for that moment of glorious all."

  Jackson swallowed. Hard. Every word Michael said was drawing him in, pulling him into his vision. He didn't fully understand it, but he could feel what Michael was saying, and that was what really mattered. Michael seemed pleased with his reaction, and he sat back a little. Jackson felt like he could breathe again. He hadn't realized he'd stopped.

  "Let's jam. We've got our stuff set up in a back room. C'mon, let's try you on."

  It felt good playing with the band—more than good. Jackson felt like he was alive for the first time, taking his first breath of air, and it was too much and not ever enough all at the same time. It was amazing. Michael got up in his space, moving around him and Jackson wasn't shy—he pushed back. He saw Michael's eyes go dark, but not in anger, and the next thing he knew, Michael had grabbed hold of his hair and was kissing him full on the mouth, with tongue and all.

  The kiss went on and on, demanding, sexual and intense, and when Michael finally broke it, Jackson gasped for air. He realized then that the band had stopped playing.

  "Well," Ariel said from behind the keys. "That was … interesting."

  Uriel snorted. Michael was only looking at him, though, that intense look in his eyes again. It made Jackson simultaneously shiver and run hot all over.

  "That was …" Michael began quietly.

  "Intense?"

  Michael nodded. "That was like original sin."

  Jackson wasn't exactly sure what that meant, to Michael anyway, but he went along with it, nodding.

  "What if—are you okay doing that in the show?"

  Jackson's eyes widened. "Oh. Uhh, yeah. Sure. Why not?"

  Michael grinned, in joy and in triumph. "I knew it. I knew you were something special."

  Jackson smiled, still not seeing whatever it was that Michael saw. And wait—had he just agreed to fool around with Michael on stage? Whatever had happened to his ethics?

  Michael pulled out his phone and turned away. "Starya? I have some ideas in mind. Let me sketch a few things. Give me an hour and he's all yours." He turned back to Jackson. "You can get set up in the hotel. In an hour, our makeup and wardrobe team will be ready to get to work. This is going to be great, I can feel it!" He grinned and left the room.

  Jackson blinked a few times.

  "He does that," Raphael said comfortingly. "When he gets an idea, he runs with it. It's what makes him brilliant—but not always the best company. Be prepared if you try to have a serious conversation."

  Ariel laughed. "He did that when I came out. I'd barely finished saying, 'I like chicks,' and he was scribbling lyrics about Eve and Lilith."

  Jackson knew that song. Eve and Lilith was about lust and angst, forbidden fruit and all that. It was hardly religious, despite its title. Fallen Angel wasn't a Christian band. They used biblical images and ideas, though, and twisted them into something bigger—into Michael's vision.

  Raphael's phone beeped, and when he read the text message, he laughed. "Gabriel, how attached to your guitar are you?"

  Jackson looked over, surprised—both at the question and by his new name. "Umm … it's nice enough. Why?"

  "If it's not like an extension of you, Michael wants to get you a new one, one that will fit with the character he's creating for you."

  "Character?"

  Raphael nodded. "What, you thought you'd escape the costumed characters we all have? Not with Michael."

  "Oh. Well, that's fine. That's cool with me."

  "C'mon." Ariel took his arm. "I'll show you the way to the hotel. Leave your bass; the roadies will take care of it." She grinned at him. "Welcome to hell, angel."

  *~*~*

  As soon as Jackson had settled into his hotel room, he dug out his cell phone and called his mom. He got her voicemail; he assumed she was working late—she was a secretary in a law office.

  "Hey, mom. I've got fucking amazing news—I got it! I'm the newest member of Fallen Angel. I just wanted to tell you. All right, I'll talk to you soon. I love you. Bye."

  He called Kandace and David next and was immediately greeted with Kandace's screams of, "Well? How'd it go? Did you get it?"

  Jackson pulled on a sober expression. "It was—different. Not what I expected."

  "Oh, honey, I'm sorry. What time is your flight? We'll be waiting at the airport to get you and then we'll have a night in, huh? Pizza and movies? I'll buy the beer."

  "Umm, I don't know when my flight gets in. Probably in like, four weeks or so."

  "Four—You made it?!"

  He grinned as Kandace screamed. "Yeah. I'm in."

  "Congratulations, man," David said. "I knew you had it in you."

  "Thanks, David. I had no idea—" The hotel phone rang. "Hang on, one second." He answered the other phone. "Hello?"

  "Mr. Gabriel, your car is waiting out front as soon as you're ready."

  "Oh, okay. Thank you. I'll be right down."

  He hung up and turned back to his cell phone. "I have to go—they're doing makeup tests on me or something. I'll talk to you guys soon. Love you."

  "We love you too, honey."

  *~*~*

  Jackson was assigned his own two-woman wardrobe and makeup team: a pretty Southern Belle named Lucy and a Milanese fashionista called Starya. The pair set to the task of his transformation to glam angel—starting with the painful bleaching of his hair.

  As his scalp burned, Starya scoped and measured every inch of his body—and that meant
every inch. Starya insisted that because they were working with leather and silicon, he would thank her later for her intrusion into his personal bubble. Jackson wasn't so sure.

  While Starya reported to the seamstresses, Lucy worked on his face. She referred to a series of sketches Michael had created of a red-accented angel and made notes of what products were needed and in what order.

  Jackson's first glance in a mirror revealed a pale-haired alien staring back at him; he told Lucy as much. She laughed. "That's not the first time I've heard that. Don't worry. Once we dye your hair and eyebrows, you'll look—"

  "Human again?" The hopeful tone in his voice was obvious.

  "That's not really what we're going for, is it?" She began rinsing the makeup from his face. "You're an angel in hell, damned for lust. You're going to be so terrifyingly beautiful people will come on the spot, dying for the chance to let you break their hearts."

  She sounded so much like Michael explaining his grand vision that Jackson wondered for a moment if they were related.

  Before heading to his first real practice with the band, Jackson found a black stocking cap to hide his hair in, carefully making sure it was loose enough not to put any pressure on his still-burning scalp. His washed out eyebrows couldn't be helped, but he preferred the slightly freaky look to full out stranger.

  When he got to the practice space, he found that it wasn't a full band practice like he had thought: Michael wasn't there. The others greeted him without any hesitation, and Uriel stole his cap long enough to get the full effect of his freaky transitioning look.

  "No Michael?" Jackson asked in what he hoped was a light, carefree tone as he plugged in his bass.

  "Nope," Raphael replied as he lifted his guitar strap over his head and settled it across his chest. "He's meeting with management and then handling a promo gig solo so we can keep rehearsing."

  Jackson nodded, trying to ignore the empty feeling in his chest that he couldn't explain and didn't understand.

  *~*~*

  "Ladies—well, lady—and gentlemen," Starya announced, "let me present to you: Gabriel!"

  Ariel actually gasped. Michael was speechless. Gabriel looked fantastic. His hair was blood red and fell around his jaw; his eyes were lined with black and shadowed with red. His tight pants, knee high boots, and jacket were all black and covered with buckles and attached to his back were sleek, black wings with iridescent crimson highlights.

  He looked fierce and sexy, like death and birth, like salvation and damnation at the same time, and Michael wanted to fuck his brains out right then and there. That had been his goal for Gabriel, a combination of lust and danger, and Gabriel had nailed it head on.

  "Well?" Gabriel asked, slightly unsure. "What do you think?"

  "You look amazing!" Ariel said immediately, eyes bright. The rest of the band made sentiments of agreement, but Gabriel's eyes were on Michael.

  "Exactly. You're exactly what I had in mind."

  "Seven minutes," Trish, the band's PA, announced, cracking the door just enough to stick her head in before disappearing, her headset firmly in place, to run the world.

  Taking a deep breath, Gabriel sat down in front of a mirror, watching his reflection. He wasn't used to his new look or new name, and he felt a bit like an imposter or an actor playing a role in somebody else's movie. He flipped the red bangs falling over his right eye and played with his earrings. He'd had the silver hoops—two in each earlobe and a few more along the shell of his ears—before he'd been remade into Gabriel and they were a comforting reminder of who he was. He loved the way he looked, loved the feel of the clothes, loved the power he felt—but even though he felt like a rockstar, he still felt terrified.

  This wasn't twelve drunks in a bar or a group of teenagers in a basement party. This was thousands of screaming, adoring fans expecting the world from the band that was their world. He wasn't about to play with some guys who got together a couple times a months; he was about to play with Fallen Angel. He squeezed the edge of the counter with a white-knuckled grip. He needed something to hold on to before he either passed out or floated away.

  "Relax, baby." Michael came up behind him, careful of his wings, and rubbed his tense shoulders. "Breathe."

  He listened to Michael, taking slow deep breaths and letting them out. It helped, a little. And then he remembered that he was about to play in front of sixty thousand people and thought he might throw up.

  "It's a good crowd out there—a great crowd. It always is. You can feel the energy all the way back here, can't you? You're gonna love it." Gabriel nodded, not sure he could open his mouth without puking. "Look in the mirror, Gabriel."

  He did, looking up to see both their reflections staring back at him. Michael looked like sex—he always did. His white-blonde hair was teased and sprayed with blue glitter; his eyes were lined with black and shadowed with cobalt; his black pants were shredded, revealing bare skin; his long sleeved azure shirt was shredded too; and his wings looked like they were a part of him.

  Michael was a rockstar. He was an idol. He was a god.

  "We look pretty hot, don't we?"

  There was laughter in his voice, that intensity in his eyes, and Gabriel grinned. "Fuck yeah we do."

  Michael laughed, revealing his pointed eyeteeth for a moment. "Let's go rock the world, Gabriel."

  Gabriel smiled up at him and joined the rest of the band as they followed Michael out of the room.

  From his position beneath the stage, Gabriel could feel the screaming in the vibration in the floor, in the stage riggings, in his bones. Glancing over at Michael, whose dark eyes and grin were hungry with need, he knew that Michael felt it too. Then came the explosion that set off the pyrotechnics above them, torrents of flames blocking off the stage like a fiery curtain, and the band was hoisted onto the stage via the elevators—their arrival in hell. In an instant, his new guitar strap was slung over his shoulder so that it was lying across his pelvis, and everything felt like home.

  The heat from the flames died down. The screaming of sixty thousand fans was intense, but as soon as Michael began to sing, his voice pure desire, thrusting his pelvis and running his fingers over himself and anything—or anyone—he could get his hands on, the intensity turned to mind-blowing energy.

  Gabriel couldn't help but grin, his playing the best it had ever been. The small crowds at bars and clubs had nothing, absolutely nothing, on this. Even his first show ever couldn't compare to what he was feeling just then, this intoxicatingly high feeling he never wanted to go away.

  There was a set list taped to the floor near his position, a cheat sheet of the song order and warnings of any pyrotechnics so he wouldn't be torched or blown to bits, but he barely needed it. He'd been watching these shows via online videos for weeks: he knew this tour.

  Michael played with him during the show—sexual looks, teasing touches, cat and mouse games. The fans loved it. They knew the tour as well as he did and this new element was driving them crazy.

  Michael's eyes were dark and intense, wild with hunger, as he circled around Gabriel. Every movement of his body screamed fuck me now! Gabriel didn't shrink back. He stood his ground, let Michael tease him. He was so turned on it was unbelievable; he needed Michael to touch him.

  And then Michael grabbed hold of his hair, plastering their mouths together, and the crowd erupted. Gabriel clung to him, battling with his tongue and teeth. He wanted more, needed more. Michael, Michael, Michael …

  Michael broke the kiss with a loud pop as he pulled back triumphantly, the drums thundering not only on the stage but even louder in Gabriel's chest.

  Holy shit. The world may have been created or destroyed during the kiss and Gabriel wouldn't have noticed. That was how intense this unforeseen physical connection to Michael was.

  Backstage after the show, the screaming of the crowds still running through their veins like electricity, Michael pushed Gabriel into an empty room and locked the door. He pushed Grabriel up against the wall and kisse
d him—hard, fierce, and demanding. Gabriel clung to him, arching his body, rubbing his leather-covered cock against Michael's. Fuck, he needed him. He opened his mouth to Michael, wanting more, and Michael bit his way across Gabriel's jaw before kissing him hard enough to bruise.

  Gabriel thrust his hips, the friction making lights go off behind his eyes. Michael started sucking on his neck, marking him, and Gabriel moaned. "Yes, yes. God, yes. Michael—fuck. Fuck yes." He moaned again. "Fuck me, Michael. I want you to fuck me."

  Michael's eyes were dark, wild, and intense. "God, yes." He kissed Gabriel, hard—

  —and then there was a knock on the door and Raphael's voice calling, "C'mon, signing time."

  They broke the kiss and Michael rested his forehead against Gabriel's with a needy groan. They shared the same air as they gasped for much needed breath, and then Michael pulled back. "C'mon. Let's go sign some shit, rockstar." He grinned at Gabriel and then disappeared out the door.

  Gabriel sagged against the wall, breathing hard and willing his raging hard on into submission. Finally, he straightened and headed to the signing area behind the venue. He watched the other band members sign things since he wasn't an official member. No one knew him; no one would want his name on their t-shirts, CDs, or tits. At the corner of his mind, he heard the muffled screams of his conscious demanding to know why he was willing—desperate—to put out for this frontman when he hadn't for the ones before, but it sounded like someone had trapped the tiny voice under a coffee can. The whole time, he stared at Michael, wanting him and needing him in a way he had never wanted or needed anyone in his whole life.

  What the hell did that mean?

  TRACK TWO

  Gabriel was given Zadkiel's old bunk on the tour bus and he spent half the next day sleeping. He'd been unable to fall asleep the night before because of all the thoughts and feelings running through him: a combination of excitement from the show and lust from after—and a lot of "What the hell am I doing?" thoughts.

  "C'mon, sleepyhead." Sammael knocked on the frame outside Gabriel's bed curtain. "We're meeting and greeting soon."