Drew Hunt

by You Rock

  You Rock!

  By Drew Hunt

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2013 Drew Hunt

  ISBN 9781611529180

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  * * * *

  You Rock!

  By Drew Hunt

  “Good crowd tonight,” I say to a sweat-soaked Alex Sherman—or Tank, as everyone calls him—when he gets into the passenger seat of my Honda Civic and slams the door.

  “Yeah.”

  Tank begins to drum his fingertips on the dash. He huffs out a breath, eyes facing forward. This is typical Tank behavior when he’s distracted and has something on his mind but isn’t ready to share. Alas, since his and the band’s return from New York City three days ago I’ve seen a lot of distraction and distance from my lover. Something went down while they were there, but Tank hasn’t let on what. This naturally has set off my insecurities and I’ve spent the past couple days dreaming up ever more elaborate scenarios, most of which end with Tank leaving me for someone else or…

  I force my mind back to the present and tell Tank to buckle himself in.

  Tank pulls the seatbelt over his wet Vikings band T-shirt that clings so invitingly to his wide, ripped chest. I turn away, not wanting to cause us to have an accident before I even get us out of the parking lot. And if the clingy T-shirt isn’t crash-causing enough, the fact he’s pulled his hair back into a pony tail so the back of his neck can dry just might be. I can already smell the muskiness of my lover coming off him in pheromone-laced waves. It’s all I can do not to put the car back in park, leap over the console and lick every square inch of my man’s salty, fur-coated flesh.

  Yes, amazingly, Alex "Tank" Sherman—talented vocalist of the recently discovered nu metal band The Vikings—is my man. I shake my head. Even after three years of being a couple, I still can’t get my head around the fact Tank is mine.

  Unwelcome, the negative thoughts return and a voice tells me Tank might not be mine for much longer. I push them away, but know they’ll be back soon, no doubt with reinforcements.

  The radio plays quietly in the background as I drive us out of town. After each concert, Tank likes to listen to something quiet and peaceful. He says it helps him chill and re-center. On stage he’s every inch the bad-ass motherfucker of alternative rock, but the real Tank, the one he only lets me see, is kind and gentle and loving and…

  Tank shifts in his seat then wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

  I give him a Kleenex. He takes it, nods and blows his nose. Silence, save for the softly playing radio, continues.

  “You so nailed ‘Rescue’,” I say when the silence becomes uncomfortable.

  “Yeah.”

  Out of the corner of my eye I see him pull the hem of his T-shirt away from his pants, no doubt to allow his stomach to dry.

  I’m lucky to always get a seat in the front row at each concert, so I know Tank always works his ass off to give the best performance he can for his fans. I smile because I’m the one who gets to go home with him. Or at least that’s been the case so far.

  I force my mind away from the negative thoughts and back to the discussion—if you can call it that—of “Rescue.” “Best I’ve heard you sing it in ages.”

  Concentrating on the road I feel more than see Tank’s penetrating, denim-blue eyes zero in on me.

  “It’s our song.”

  I nod, putting a hand on Tank’s leather-clad knee.

  “Rescue” is about us, how we met.

  * * * *

  I’d been in a relationship with my previous boyfriend for a year. It hadn’t been going anywhere for about nine months of that time but I couldn’t seem to pull myself free from the constant circle of Jerry’s abuse and pleas for forgiveness. The one thing I had stood firm on was not to agree to Jerry’s demands we move in together. Jerry was a possessive bastard who believed every man wanted in my pants and I wanted in theirs. It didn’t matter how many times I’d told him I wasn’t interested in anyone else.

  Jerry always believed what he wanted to believe.

  Jerry and I went to an out-of-town biker bar to celebrate our first anniversary. It had been Jerry’s idea. He’d heard the beer was cheap. I’d much rather have gone to a wine bar or a nice restaurant, but anything to keep the peace.

  We entered the bar and were immediately hit by a wall of sound: guitars, drums, and synthesizer. A quick glance over to the far corner of the room showed a nu metal band was performing. Much to everyone’s surprise, buttoned-up me liked metal. Admittedly, I preferred the hair bands of the eighties, but the newer alternative scene was okay, too. There was just something about grinding beats, guitar riffs, and angrily delivered lyrics that got me going. Just then, the huge vocalist stepped out from behind the turntables. His leather pants were so tight I was amazed he could still sing. And how deeply he sang.

  But I was there with Jerry, so I devoted my attention to him, although I will admit my eyes did stray back to the stage every now and again.

  As the evening progressed, Jerry became more and more drunk. With every shot—whiskey was his drink of choice—he became increasingly unpleasant.

  I tuned out his snide comments about my weight and patheticness in bed, and turned my attention to the live band.

  They were impressive for a group of what I assumed were local guys. The lead guitar and bass players seemed competent, even inventive. The lead guitarist’s riffs were awesome. I didn’t recognize the number they were playing; it must have been something they’d written themselves.

  But always my eyes drifted back to the long, dark brown hair, broad shoulders, wide chest, narrow waist, and strong legs of the vocalist, who confidently strutted his stuff at the front of the stage. He moved with fluid grace, not easy for a man his size.

  And despite the hard lyrics, delivered at volume, the man’s voice wasn’t strained. He had control over the words, delivering them with conviction and meaning. And the way he held that microphone... it was like he was making love to it. I shuddered.

  The man represented power, control, and more than a little danger. I was hooked.

  It didn’t take Jerry long to realize my attention wasn’t on him. He spun me around to face him, his face red with rage. A quick glance down confirmed his fists were clenched. I stepped back, knowing what was coming. There was never any reasoning with Jerry when he got like this. Jerry must have interpreted my moving away as me ignoring him. This was something he could never tolerate. I didn’t see his punch coming, but I sure felt it land. It sent me sprawling to the dirty bar floor.

  I heard a scream from close by, and fearing a fight was about to br
eak out, I began to pick myself up, determined to get out of the way. I’d learned from bitter experience it was never a good idea to leave myself vulnerable when Jerry was like this.

  Finally on my feet again—the room spinning around me, the music becoming less coordinated—I glanced back over to the band. The singer leapt from the stage, his shoulder-length hair streaming behind him. Despite everything else that was going on around me—people pushing each other, chairs scraping and voices raised above the loud and increasingly out-of-synch music—I focused on the rock god steaming his way toward us.

  That was the last thing I needed, more people joining in. I moved back another step but found myself pressed up against the bar.

  There were people on either side of me. I was trapped.

  I felt another blow, this one just above my left eye. At least the solid presence of the bar stopped me from falling again.

  There was flashing. Had they turned on disco lights? I could hear Jerry screaming something at me, although the dominant sound was some kind of ringing. Very surreal.

  I don’t remember much after that. Tank later told me he’d pushed his way over, throwing aside anyone who wouldn’t or couldn’t get out of his way. Apparently Tank had pinned Jerry against a wall and started to beat the crap out of him. But before he could get in many good punches the bouncers finally arrived and broke things up.

  Tank then told me he'd half-carried me to the far end of the bar. I dimly remember sitting on a bar stool, an ice-filled towel held above my eye. I also remember seeing Tank’s full red lips moving. They were close and getting closer. Tank assured me I had leaned forward and kissed him soundly. Pity I have no memory of that, because kisses to or from Tank are always worth remembering. If I’d been more myself I’d never have had the balls to kiss a stranger, much less one who could snap me in half without breaking a sweat.

  * * * *

  I looked at my wrist watch and let out a long sigh. We’d been sitting in the ER waiting room for two hours. The place was packed with genuinely sick people and here I was with a headache and a small cut that had stopped bleeding ages ago.

  “It’s okay if you want to leave. I could be hours y—”

  “I’m staying,” Tank growled and crossed his arms over his wide chest.

  Tank insisted the cut had needed stitches and he was also worried about a possible concussion. I’d protested I was okay but I might as well have saved my breath.

  So here we were, waiting, poor Tank overflowing an orange plastic chair.

  “Sorry.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What for?”

  I let out a breath. “This. The waiting, you being uncomfortable on these chairs.”

  “They’re just as uncomfortable for you, and I’m not the one who also has a headache.”

  I had no idea why someone as awesome, as sexy, as amazing as Tank would even give a man like me a second look, much less be willing to spend time waiting with me in the ER. I was Mr. Average. Reasonable looking, but with prematurely receding hair, and a boring job as a paralegal, not to mention I was on the wrong side of thirty and carrying around a few extra pounds.

  Tank tilted his head to one side. “What now?”

  I realized, too late, I’d been staring. “Uh, was wondering why you don’t have any tattoos.”

  Tank shifted in his seat and looked down. “Don’t like them.”

  That was surprising. Everyone else in the band was inked up. And the size of Tank’s arms would make for a perfect canvas.

  Before I could think about it any further a nurse in blue scrubs came into the room and announced, “William Prout?”

  I got up to follow the rapidly disappearing nurse. To my surprise Tank stood and followed me. The nurse tried to tell him he couldn’t accompany me, but she, too, might as well have saved her breath. I was quickly coming to realize that if Tank wanted to do something…he did it.

  I soon learned the real reason why Tank didn’t have any tattoos. The doctor had just begun to stitch up my forehead when Tank’s face went a ghostly white and he slumped to the floor in a dead faint.

  * * * *

  “Blaze is a complete asshole!” Tank announces, pulling me back from memories of that night.

  I take a quick glance over at his sneering face. Is this what he’s been brooding about for the past few miles? “What’s he done now?”

  “You didn’t hear?” Tank raises his voice. I flinch and pull my hand away from his leg. “Sorry, babe.” Tank reaches for my hand and kisses the knuckles.

  I smile and return my hand to his knee.

  On stage, Tank is a bad-ass rock vocalist, growling and screaming his lyrics, but off-stage he’s the gentlest, kindest, most loving and protective man I’ve ever met.

  * * * *

  “You’re quiet,” Tank said, resting an arm across my shoulders as we walked out to the hospital’s parking lot.

  “Been a long day.” No way would I admit I was scared of going home. While Jerry didn’t have a key, he would most probably be waiting outside my building, his anger fueled by even more alcohol. “I can drop you off at home, or take you back to the bar if your car is there.”

  “You remember what that doctor said: no driving for twenty-four hours. And he didn’t want you to be alone tonight.”

  “Yes, but—”

  Tank gave me a half hug. “No buts.” He pinched my ass, making me yelp. “Except this one.”

  I looked around to see if anyone saw us. But I was with Tank, and I knew he’d step in if…

  “We could go back to my apartment, but Jerry—”

  “He the asswipe you came to the bar with?”

  I shivered and nodded. Tank pulled me closer and kissed the butterfly bandage on my forehead. “I’ll deal with that tomorrow, but tonight you’re coming home with me.”

  “But—”

  I received a slap to my ass. “What did I say about buts?”

  * * * *

  Tank lets out a breath. “He started playing the wrong fucking song at the start of our second set.”

  I must have zoned out again because it takes me a few seconds to remember Tank is talking about Blaze, the drummer.

  All the other members of the band had accepted me from the start, but for whatever reason, Blaze had taken a permanent and instant dislike to me.

  If I didn’t know better I’d believe Blaze was gay and jealous of me for stealing Tank from him. But he was in the middle of divorcing wife number three. He had five kids from his marriages and at least two others from women he’d had affairs with.

  Putting aside my dislike of the drummer, I try to sound positive. “You all managed to get on track again. I’m sure the audience just thought you were doing a bit of improv.”

  Tank huffs and goes back to tapping the dash.

  “Just shows what professionals you are.” Silently I exclude Blaze from that statement, but Tank doesn’t need to know that. The two men have been friends for years, Tank being Blaze’s best man at each of his weddings. I give his knee another squeeze. “And it also shows that that agent was right to get you signed to a label.”

  “We haven’t signed yet.”

  Two months earlier the band had been approached by an agent who’d picked up one of their demo CDs, had liked what he’d heard and come to see them perform. He’d been impressed, of course, and said he wanted to represent them and get them signed with a label. The lead guitar and bass player were all for it, but the DJ and Blaze were both opposed. Tank couldn’t seem to make up his mind. I don’t know why, he won’t ever talk about it with me. The other members, including Blaze, sought my legal advice, even though I tried to tell them I was only a paralegal. But after they’d insisted, I’d looked over the contract. It seemed reasonable to me. They would be expected to sign for three years and produce three albums; they’d get a hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars advance on record sales. But knowing my limitations, I’d steered them in the direction of an entertainment lawyer.

  I assumed
things went well after that, as they’d flown to New York to meet with the label’s executives. I hadn’t been able to get time off work, although I hadn’t actually been invited to go with them anyway. The lack of an invite hurt, even though none of the other guys had taken their partners. I glance over at Tank, still nervously drumming. Things haven’t been the same since New York. What hurts the most is Tank pulling away, not wanting to make love with me. He’s claimed tiredness and stress, but I know there’s something else. I take comfort from the fact he asked me to come to tonight’s concert and drive him home afterward.

  The silence stretches out between us. Sure, it’s usual for Tank to be subdued after a performance, but this is different, and it makes me uneasy.

  In an attempt to restart the conversation, I say, “As soon as you all got it together after Blaze’s mistake you really kicked it up a couple notches.”

  “Yeah, but I came in half a bar too early on ‘Deadly Diversion’,” Tank says and resumes his drumming.

  If there’s one thing I could change about this awesome man it would be for him to be less self-critical. He’s a perfectionist and is too down on himself if anything doesn’t meet up to his exacting standards.

  “I thought you were fucking amazing on stage earlier.” In a softer voice, I add, “and I’m hoping you’ll be fucking amazing off stage later.”

  I see Tank’s beautiful smile in the mirror. “You’re only saying that to stroke my ego.”

  I match his smile, relieved he’s starting to come out of his funk. “There’s something I’d like to stroke even more.” My hand goes higher up his leg. He raises up to press into my touch.

  A minute or so later he gasps and pushes my hand away.

  “Take the next right.”

  “Huh?” That isn’t the road home.

  “Turn right,” Tank says, more urgently.

  I flip on the signal and make the turn. What’s going on?