Beneath the Burn

by Pam Godwin

  “I need to pee. Do I have time?” Charlee pointed at the restroom a few feet ahead.

  Nathan moved around them and disappeared behind the door marked Women.

  “Jay Mayard?”

  A male voice, one startling similar to the fucker Jay heard on TV that morning. His pulse spiked as he spun and shoved the man against the wall.

  An armful of CDs tumbled to the floor and a pimple-faced kid in his twenties stared up at him out of wide eyes. His overlong hair tangled around the kind of headset worn by the band’s stage crew.

  Fucking hell. He’d lost his ever-loving mind. Jay jumped back, releasing the kid and crunching plastic cases underfoot. The threat of Roy, the usual pre-show jitters, and his anxious need to keep Charlee pinned to his side created a fog of dizziness that shook his knees. He searched his pockets and remembered the overflowing trash can Nathan had carried out of his room the prior night. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

  Tony stepped in front of him. Jay couldn’t see her face, but the kid cowered.

  “I…uh…my little sister loves The Burn. I’m…I work on the backline crew and was wondering if Mr. Mayard would sign my sister’s CDs?”

  “Bathroom’s clear.” Nathan held the door open for Charlee.

  She slipped out of reach, eyes narrowed at Jay under lowered lashes. Was that disapproval?

  Jay’s heart rate escalated, his nerves fraying. “I’ll go in with you, Charlee.”

  She looked away and slipped into the restroom. Dammit to hell. His face fevered.

  “Sign your albums,” Nathan said from the doorway. “I’ve got this.”

  The door shut and rattled the walls. Fuck Nathan. Jay lurched forward, fists clenched and ready. He tripped.

  The kid grunted from the floor where he gathered the CDs. He shook out his fingers.

  Great. Not only had Jay shoved him, he’d stepped on his hand. Feeling like an ass, he dropped to a knee and picked up the cracked cases. “What’s your name?”

  “Kevin.” He lowered his voice and flicked his gaze at Tony’s back. “Brady told me to give you this.” He tugged a tiny zip-locked baggie out of his pocket and stretched his arm toward Jay. “Said if I did, you’d sign this stuff for me.”

  Brady. His longest-standing roadie and hook-up for all things drug-related.

  Jay dragged his eyes away from the mix of yellow and white pills. Oxycontin with a Phenergan prep for nausea. He knew it well. “No. Not interested.” His finger twitched.

  Lips as red as the poor kid’s pimples curved downward, as did his bony shoulders.

  “Tell you what, Kevin. Give Faye your contact information, and I’ll ship you a signed copy of every album we’ve produced. Okay?” He held out the broken CDs he’d collected.

  The baggie dangled from Kevin’s trembling fingers, waiting.

  Just beyond the bathroom door, Charlee was peeing under Nathan’s watchful gaze. Motherfuck, he wanted to punch something. If he hadn’t lost his shit, he would’ve been in there with her instead of her donkey-fucking hero.

  In a few short minutes, Jay would be singing to thousands. So much pressure. So many people. So many notes to fuck up. And he hadn’t slept since the nap on the plane the prior day. What if he glanced at his fingers on the fret too long and Charlee disappeared from view? He was strung so tight, he wouldn’t make it through the first song without breaking down.

  Forty migs of Oxycontin would give him a little lift. Buzzy enough to smooth his edginess, but not too potent to steal his vigilance over her.

  With a peek at Tony’s back, he slipped the bag from Kevin’s fingers as he dumped the CDs into his hands. “Find Faye, our manager. And I’m sorry about the shove. And stepping on your fingers.”

  Kevin jumped up. “No worries. Thanks so much, Mr. Mayard.”

  No worries. Good one. Pacing in front of the bathroom door, Jay checked the number stamps on the pills. Nice thing about Oxycontin was there were no real side effects as long as he managed his use. He wasn’t an addict so there was no harm in this one pill. Charlee didn’t even need to know about it.

  A twinge of guilt lodged in his throat. He swallowed it back and chased it with a yellow forty and white twenty-five.

  In twenty minutes, he would be ready to rockatize the arena.

  62

  The bounce and sway of twenty thousand concert-goers electrified the air, sparking off Charlee’s body and lifting her skin with goose pimples. The sea of waving arms and camera phones flickered through the stands as far as she could see. They probably would’ve fought each other for her seat. Guaranteed the owners of the dozen or so eyes burning into her back would have.

  She wouldn’t let the groupies barricaded in the wing ruin the moment. It wasn’t her fault they weren’t allowed on the stage. Jay told her where to sit, she sat, and no one questioned him.

  She perched on a bass cabinet on the stage deck. If the fans in the front row squinted at the shaded edge, they might’ve seen her. And despite their chanting pleas, Jay refused to emerge from the shadowed recess beside her.

  The panorama of the boys on stage, glistening with sweat and jamming in tune with a house of energetic people, sent a tingling rush through her body. Experiencing the most popular bands of her time perform feet away would stay with her forever.

  Through the first two songs, Jay sang while facing her, hands in the pockets of his leather pants. The rhythmic flow of his voice penetrated her chest, deepened by the fix of his gaze. His timbre reverberated through the sound system to thousands of idolizers, yet the arousing way he moved his lips behind his headset microphone, never looking away from her, it felt as though she were his only audience.

  He ended the second song on a series of erotic exhales and she felt those breaths low in her core and warm in her cheeks. He must have sensed her reaction because he winked. Lord have mercy, he was a sexy man with a killer vocal range, and if she weren’t mistaken, he was enjoying himself. A startling contrast from the hot-tempered barbarian twenty minutes earlier.

  As the band transitioned into the third song, a roadie waved to Jay from downstage and held out a guitar. Jay ignored him and took advantage of the reprieve in vocals by stepping between her legs.

  Movement on the stage glinted light across his brown eyes. He reached out and trailed his fingers down her arm, around her hip, made the short trip over her skirt, and under the hem.

  What the hell was he doing? The arena thundered with Rio’s percussional lead and the spunky pluck of Wil’s bass. The roadie with the guitar frantically waved his arm at Jay.

  “What are you doing?” she mouthed.

  He pushed his fingers between her legs, separating her thighs and curling them inside the crotch of her panties. His eyes looked…off. Out of focus maybe. Was it nerves? Arousal?

  Two fingers breached her opening, sliding in, to the knuckles. Her breath caught and her knees fell open as far as the skirt would allow. Desire pulsed where he stretched her, lubricating his entry. She buried her mouth in her shoulder, unsure if her moan would be picked up by his mic.

  One thrust…two….three. His hand disappeared, leaving her empty and panting. He stepped toward the panicking roadie, working those leather pants simply by walking backward, smoothly and confidently. He wiggled his fingers at her and she desperately wanted them back.

  She wiped the sheen of perspiration from her cleavage with the heel of her hand. Holy hell, it was hot in here.

  Screams piped from the women leaning over the gate at the front of the stage. They must have glimpsed The Burn’s reclusive singer. Heads bobbed and swerved as if trying to score the best view. When the squeals threatened to drown out the instruments, she knew they had seen him.

  Accepting his guitar and strapping it over his body, Jay still hadn’t released her gaze. An odd smile quirked his lips. Then he stepped from the shadows and into the edge of the stage lights.

  The crowd exploded in hopping bodies and piercing shrieks. His stage appearance excited Charlee as much as the fans, but
what had prompted him to cross that barrier? Was he showing off for her? Doing it because she wanted him to? Perhaps his new freedom from triggers gave him the confidence? Her fingernails bit into the cabinet beneath her as she waited to see what he would do next.

  The guys must have doubled or tripled the length of the instrumental intro because they were still playing, following Jay’s lead. The guitar solo waned, and Laz arched a brow at his vocalist.

  Jay missed it, his eyes on her. Raising his two wet fingers, he pumped them in and out of his mouth. The crowd shrilled, seemingly unconcerned that his head was turned sideways, eyes focused offstage.

  “Good Evening, Los Angeles.”

  A stunned hush fell over the arena. Jay’s greeting made Rio jerk, missing a drumbeat. Laz and Wil slowed their strumming and straightened their stances.

  The quiet erupted into the ragged screams of thousands. From videos of the band’s live performances, she knew he sometimes addressed the crowd, but never from a visible position on stage. What in the world had gotten in to him? Devil-may-care, she surged with pride.

  Watching her over his shoulder, Jay ambled further upstage, sucking on his fingers. “Nothing flavors rock-n-roll like the sweetly pleasing taste of pussy. Ain’t that right, Los Angeles?” He flicked those fingers in a peace sign and pivoted his body toward her.

  The house went wild, as did her emotions. Who was this guy and what had he done with the man who loathed mobs and attention? She wasn’t offended by his declaration about pussy. In fact, she hungered for the confident musician strutting toward her, tapping the body of the guitar, even as something about his behavior slithered under her skin and raised the hairs on her nape.

  A woman in the front row yelled, “Try my pussy, Jay.”

  Holding Charlee’s gaze, he lurched back toward the crowd until his body was once again bathed in spotlights. “I found my huntress.” His eyes seared into hers. “My Charlee. Let me be very clear.”

  For the first time since the show began, he looked away from her and toward the audience. “No one fucks with my girl.” He squinted into the lights, sweeping a pointed finger over the endless landscape of faces. “No one.”

  Huntress. Charlee. The titles of their biggest hit songs. Before she could ponder what the crowd must be thinking, his eyes swung to hers and he belted the first verse of the first song she’d ever heard by them. “Huntress of the room in my head. Fearless and knowing.” The fluctuation of his beautiful voice was as haunting as the muddy notes humming from his amp.

  The roadie pointed at an X taped on the stage in front of the drum kit. Jay walked past the designated spot, whipping the power cord so that it dragged behind him unhindered. He didn’t see the roadie stomp a foot and point at the X again.

  She covered her mouth to muffle a laugh. Must have been a new guy. Surely the seasoned ones were used to Jay’s rebellion.

  For the remainder of the set, Jay’s stage presence remained in the shadows. His charisma radiated an energy that rooted inside her, transforming her. He sang his heart out, hitting octaves that vibrated her bones.

  She latched onto the passion behind his words, let it weave through her soul. The aroma of his musk-laced sweat rode on her inhales, fueling her body and rendering her paralyzed. She couldn’t avert her eyes from his smoldering ones as he performed song after song written for her.

  On the fringe of her periphery, Laz and Wil jumped around center stage, their heads nodding to the beat of their instruments, in sync with the verve heaving from the crowd. The fog of pungent smoke—which could only be produced from the greenery passing through the crowd—was thick enough to drown out the perfume-weighted estrogen fuming behind her.

  When the last note of the encore buzzed from Jay’s amp and drifted through the house, he yanked out the power jack. Holding the guitar out to the side, he didn’t look at the roadie who grabbed it. His eyes were on her, and they were hungry.

  Applause thundered behind him as he inched closer. Arousal mounted on his face and pressed against his fly. Shit. Was he going to fuck her right there?

  He reached for his belt buckle, released it. Unzipped his pants. The head of his erection pushed through the open flaps. He rolled back his shoulders.

  Oh God. This was what he did after his shows. He didn’t have to leave the stage. His choice of lays would’ve been waiting in the wing. She squared her shoulders. He didn’t need them anymore.

  But was that what she wanted? To go at it right there in view of the crew breaking down the equipment?

  Her pussy throbbed. Exhibitionism defined the whole of her sexual history with Roy. Every interaction recorded and observed. It should’ve deterred her from wanting that with Jay, but like all her sexual desires, she craved it in spite of her initiation to it.

  Nathan and Tony stood near the stage curtain. Charlee caught Nathan’s gaze, reached for the hem of her skirt, and sent him a silent plea to look the other way.

  He tapered his eyes, clenched his jaw, and put his mouth at Tony’s ear. A few words passed between them, and he moved toward the wing, turning his back. Tony’s vigil returned to Charlee and Jay and everyone around them.

  “Charlee.” Jay’s gaze made an explorative journey over her body, pooling heat everywhere it idled. He went back to her face, his tongue rolling over his bottom lip.

  She gathered the skirt and bunched it up her hips until her thighs were bare. Biting down on a fingernail, she spread her legs.

  63

  The click-clack of multiple heels stampeded over Charlee’s shoulder. The groupies must have been released from their cage.

  She straightened her spine, but in the next breath, she forgot why. Jay was on her. His hands bit into her thighs. Moved to her hips. Ripped the strings on her panties. The ruined lace dropped somewhere behind him. His tongue pushed past her lips, slashing with hers. She raised her pelvis, meeting his groin, grinding, unbidden and impatient.

  A long-lost sensation uncoiled and heated where he thrust against her. The tease of penetration. The aggression. The onlookers. The threat of Roy in this public place. Her adrenaline spiked. Heaven help her. If he fucked her, she might come.

  “Charlee, fuck. Tell me I’m not dreaming. You’re my here, my now, and God, if I’m lucky, my hereafter.”

  The force behind his words illuminated their darkened recess. She sighed into his mouth and wrapped her fingers around his length. “If you throw me down and fuck me, I’ll be your hereunder.”

  A shadow fell over them. Felica curled her pleathered body against his side, one hard nipple poking out of her low neckline.

  Jay leaned in and sealed his mouth over Charlee’s, breathless and demanding. Did he not notice Felica rubbing up against him? Maybe he didn’t care.

  Bristling at his disregard for her feelings, Charlee released his dick and tried to punch Felica in the stomach, but she hopped out of reach. Maybe she’d take the hint.

  Charlee had an overwhelming urge to beg him to take her somewhere else, somewhere intimate. But that would’ve been running from this thing she knew she needed to confront. He’d told her he only wanted her. Had he lied? As much as her heart rejected the idea, she needed to see how far he’d let this go.

  He sank his teeth into the spot below her injured ear, shooting a warming pang through her body. The pressure from his bite intensified, and he lined up his erection at her entrance, his groan vibrating down her back.

  Dammit, the audacious woman pressed against him again, hands at her sides, eyes on his mouth where he nuzzled Charlee’s neck.

  “Jay, wait.” Why wouldn’t he push her away? Tell her to fuck off? Charlee’s arousal fizzled by the second. “Get that woman—”

  He thrust, buried in one long stroke. His neck arched, and he shouted something indiscernible to the rafters.

  Stars flashed through her vision and heat exploded between her legs. “Ahhh, Jeeeeesus.”

  Hips pumping, he gripped her thighs and lifted her lower body to meet him. The new position dr
opped her on her back, head hanging off the edge of the half-stack, the plastic casing digging into her shoulders. He followed her down, flexing his hips. The pain was so arousing, everything else fell away.

  “My turn.”

  The feminine voice crawled over Charlee’s skin. She snapped her head up and met Felica’s frosty blue eyes. A violence of emotions ripped through her and she reared back to punch whatever pleathered body part she could reach.

  He twisted his neck and glared at Felica. “Don’t you dare touch me. Go away.” His voice dipped, low and commanding.

  “Come on now. Why does she get to touch you?” Felica pointed at Charlee’s hands where they gripped his shoulders.

  She had a point. His triggers weren’t tripping.

  “Because she is Charlee. This is the last time I’ll tell you. Go. Away.” He swatted a hand behind him, missing Felica by a ridiculous margin.

  The woman rolled her lips between her teeth, turned on her heels, and strutted away. He looked at Charlee out of glazed eyes. Was he having a hard time centering?

  She shoved his shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?”

  His eyebrows pulled together and snapped back. A smile skittered across his swollen lips. “I’m buried seven-inches in, baby. Ain’t a goddamned thing wrong.” He powered into her. The strength of his thrust spiraled through her womb. It burned so good, but something was off.

  Clumsy. Overly confident. Unfocused eyes. Oh God, he was high. Her muscles tensed to fight him off.

  His eyes dilated and he pinned her hands to her chest, stroking her womb with his lunges. She should tell him No. She should shout it through the arena.

  But that would bring the wrath of Nathan with fists flying as he dragged her from L.A. Her molars slammed together. She could deal with this.

  His mouth fell over hers, and she head butted him. Undaunted, he fucked her with the potency of his strength and the weight of his body. It might’ve felt orgasmic if he weren’t fucking high.