Someone in the crowd flings a black lace bra on stage and Scott catches it one-handed. He knots it around the top of his mic stand and flashes his tongue hungrily at whoever threw it.
I roll my eyes.
Sure, there’s always a nagging piece of me that can’t stand watching Scott lap up the female adulation, but I tell that part of me to ride it out while Scott pulls in the fans and builds up our band.
It’s all part of being up and coming rockstars.
I have my own share of male groupies lusting after me at the moment. The guys grouped at the base of my side of the stage are trying to stare up the crotch of my skin tight leather pants.
My guitar blocks their view because I wear it low.
Sorry, boys.
They love the tease.
But I have no real interest in my male fans. As long as Scott never crosses any lines with his groupies, I’m cool.
The Vari-Lites hanging over our heads flash through a sequence of hot red patterns that cascade across the stage while a hot spotlight follows Scott. He cockily holds the mic stand near the base with one hand like a really long sword, and chants out the first verse of Slave To You:
“Take me on
Get me off
You’ll always be
the problem that I got
Pull me in
Let it out
Scream my name
Every time you shout”
The whole time he’s singing, he’s rubbing his free hand across his flat stomach. The girls in the audience are starry eyed and slack jawed. I resist the urge to kick their mouths closed with my stripper shoes. With them down on the floor and me up on the stage, it would be way too easy.
But I can’t kill our fans.
We need them.
After the verse riff, my fingers blaze up and down the neck as I play a quick fill of trills before the chorus.
A cute guy at the foot of the stage yells, “Play it for me, Victory! WOO HOO!!!”
It’s nice to have fans who actually appreciate my musical skills and not just my tight outfit.
“Show us your tits!” some other guy shouts.
Had to go and ruin it for me, didn’t he?
I smirk at him. At least they’re shouting for me and not Scott. It could be worse and the house could be empty.
“Scott!” a girl screams from where she sits on top of some guy’s shoulders. She lifts up her Skin Slave t-shirt and shows Scott her tits.
Grinning, I shake my head.
It’s only Rock & Roll.
I hope the guy who wanted to see my tits is getting an eyeful of the braless groupie, cuz he’s not going to see mine.
Scott is of course loving it and pointing at tit girl as he sings the pre-chorus:
“I need you
I breath you
I only want to please you
Take me
Break me
I am the slave to you”
Tit Girl screeches, “Make me your slave, Scott!”
Scott sings the first line of the chorus directly to Tit Girl, “Slave to yooouuu!”
Tit Girl looks ready to faint from Scott’s attention, like his voice is beaming pure orgasmic love into her heart. It’s a common reaction, no matter how misguided it may be.
Rex also sings into his own mic on stage left, harmonizing with Scott as they repeat the chorus together.
Scott arches his back and holds his mic stand out to the audience like it’s his cock jutting from his pelvis.
Every woman in the audience shouts out the next line of the chorus in time with the music, “I AM A SLAVE TO YOU!”
Scott is so in love with being adored by his fans.
But now it’s my turn to shine. It’s time for my guitar solo.
My fingers machine gun up the neck of my guitar and all the guys swarming in front of me shout my name like they want to eat me alive. They eye me hungrily with their lusty gazes.
In this moment, they all want me.
I give it to them.
I yank on my Fender’s whammy bar and high harmonic squeals sing from my Marshall amp like a primal scream.
I’m having the time of my life playing for this huge crowd of adoring fans.
Chapter 6
KELLAN
The Cobra Lounge is so packed with people, Skin Trade starts before I’m inside the main room. I can’t see the stage, but I can hear the band blaring through the house sound system. The intense volume rumbles the whole building.
The tune sounds promising.
Judging by the crowd’s response, the fans love them.
I’ve been waiting to see Skin Trade play for months. Everyone’s been saying, “Dude, you gotta see Skin Trade play live. Their guitar player is unreal.”
I’ve heard that before.
But then I’m always disappointed.
With all the anticipation I’ve built up, the only way Skin Trade’s guitar player is going to impress me tonight is if he’s Jimi Hendrix back from the grave.
When I finally squeeze through the doors into the jam packed main room, it’s a broiling mosh pit maelstrom. Black-clad bodies swirl and bob on waves of pure testosterone.
I consider diving in, but I’ve moshed my ass off hundreds of times at shows. Tonight I want to watch the band.
From where I stand, the P.A. speakers block my view of the left side of the stage. I can’t see the guitar player. The quickest route to a better view is straight through the mosh pit.
I scan the chaos, looking for an opening.
Concert shirts of every hard rock and metal band imaginable flash past me. Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, Sepultura, Alice in Chains, Godsmack, Mastodon, Slipknot, Lamb of God, Scorpion Child, Five Finger Death Punch, Dragonforce. Best of all, several people wear Wild Child shirts, my favorite metal band of all time.
Awesome.
I’m totally in my element right now.
When I’m about to take a step into the pit, a big raging bull locomotives past me. He’s a beefy guy with a short mohawk, handle bar mustache, a ratty Slayer t-shirt, and lace up combat boots. He’s taller than everyone in the pit by a few inches, and wider by at least two feet. By the look of him, he only has sex with women who are unconscious. Whether he knocks them out himself or looks for the ones passed out under pool tables at biker bars is anybody’s guess.
A second later, Bull Locomotive mows down a little guy two feet to my left. The kid seems too small and gangly for the intensity of this pit. He’s down on all fours and he’s gonna get trampled. I lift him by the arm pits, pulling him to his feet and out of the pit.
When I get a good look at him, he’s way too young for a 21 and over club. Not that I care. I used to sneak into clubs like this all the time to see shows when I was young. But I looked over 21 by the time I had a driver’s license. I wonder how this kid snuck in tonight?
I shout over the music, “YOU OKAY, KID?”
“YEAH,” he shouts, “THANKS, MAN,” he smiles sheepishly and rubs his forearm, which is bright red and glistening where the flesh is freshly abraded. He wears a classic “Metal Up Your Ass” Metallica t-shirt that has a fist thrusting a dagger out of a toilet bowl.
“MAYBE YOU OUGHTA SIT THIS ONE OUT?” I suggest. “TAKE CARE OF YOUR ARM?”
“FUCK NO!” he smiles. “IT’S A BATTLE SCAR!”
I offer him my fist, which he bumps, and say, “YOU’RE HARDCORE, KID.”
He grins and charges back into the mayhem.
I shake my head, smiling. I was the same way just a few years back. I’m sure he’ll be fine. But I’ll keep an eye out for Bull Locomotive in case the guy decides to be a dick all night.
I weave through the pit, dodging whirling bodies. Several bounce off me, but I ignore them.
I’m about to squeeze back into the crowd on the edge of the pit when I see Bull Locomotive barreling toward me from the corner of my eye. His elbows are flailing like he’s some kind of human demolition machine. I think he plans on chopping me to pieces w
ith his elbows.
I turn to face him.
An image of a traditional bullfighter flashes through my head, the kind who wear those fancy embroidered outfits that all the Latin ladies love. Those guys are rockstars in Spain and Mexico.
Bull Locomotive’s eyes gleam when he sees me. His lips peel back over his teeth as he chugs toward me, elbows flailing double time.
I widen my eyes with mock fear as he closes the distance. At the last second, I spin out of his way. He stumbles past, completely off balance, his intended target not where it was supposed to be.
I’d make a pretty good matador.
I don’t even need a red cape.
I find a gap in the crowd and ease up to a group of five girls wearing t-shirts that say “I Am A Skin Slave.” Their attention is riveted on the lead singer of the band. Based on their fine backsides, two of the girls look hot enough to take home. I dig their tight rocker chick jeans. If I’m going to get a better view of the band’s guitar player, I’ll have to squeeze through them and their tight jeans.
I kind of like how that sounds.
Time to work my magic. “‘SCUSE ME, LADIES,” I holler, making sure to flash my smile back at all of them as I push through their ranks.
When they realize I’m not a low browed mouth breather busting up their good time, their faces go from annoyance to hypnotized in a heartbeat. They unconsciously circle around me, forgetting about the band playing on stage entirely.
All five of them undress me with their eyes. One of them boldly touches my chest. I suspect if I stood here long enough and smiled at them dumbly, they would literally start undressing me and get down to business.
Lucky for me, it turns out all five of them are reasonably cute from the front. Maybe I’ll take them all home after the show and have a menage-a-six or whatever you call it.
The one touching me fawns and rests her warm hand on my chest. She asks, “What’s your name?”
Just because I’m here to see this guitar player everyone is talking about doesn’t mean I have to be rude. I gently lift fawning girl’s fingers from my chest and kiss the back of her hand gently. “Kellan Burns,” I say. “You guys staying here for the whole show?”
All five of them nod in unison.
I look each one in the eye thoughtfully and say, “Then I’ll catch up with you guys after.”
All five are still nodding hypnotically.
I turn back to the stage and continue knitting between the people crushing against each other desperately in an attempt to be closer to the band.
On stage, the spotlight shines on the lead singer as he sings into the mic. His stage presence is flamboyant and captivating. I’m not surprised he’s the local heartthrob. I smile when I notice his “FUCK.” t-shirt. I like the guy already. Then I notice the handsome shirtless bass player with an eight pack on display. No wonder there are so many chicks here tonight.
If I joined the band, we’d rule the world.
I’ve heard enough of the music since I walked in the door to know the band is pretty damned good. They’re super tight. I’m betting they rehearse five days a week at least. These guys are pros.
But I haven’t heard any guitar solos yet. That’s what I wanna hear most. If the guy sucks, maybe I’ll talk to the band about replacing their crappy guitar player with me because I don’t suck. If the dude is awesome but ugly, I’ll still talk to the band. I’ve got the chops and the looks.
I bob my head around some girl sitting on her boyfriend’s shoulders. I finally catch a glimpse of a guitar player, but shoulders girl is flailing her arms, so all I really see of the guitar player is really long hair.
Could still be some ugly dude with a wig.
I shift right and finally see the guitar player full on.
It’s a girl.
A really hot girl with a tight body.
Is she the lead guitar player everyone has been telling me about? Her rhythm playing is solid, but the real test is the solos.
I continue working my way toward the stage to get a better view of her.
She looks incredibly sexy in her tight leather outfit, but I still haven’t seen her face. She’s banging her head too much and her hair’s flailing all over the place. Under all that hair, she could easily be a butter face, a.k.a. “everything is hot but her face.”
The song transitions riffs and she rips into a shredding guitar solo.
Holy fuck.
She’s incredible.
I’m instantly mesmerized.
My eyes glue to her left hand as it dances across the fretboard. Her fingers butterfly up and down the neck. Her right hand rapid-fires notes like a machine gun. Only guy I know who plays like that is the legendary Yngwie Malmsteen.
But this ain’t him.
It’s this chick.
Now I know she’s a butter face. That’s the only explanation for how good she is on guitar.
A hot babe isn’t going to sit inside practicing scales day after day with a metronome when every guy on the planet buys them free shit the second they walk out the house. Yeah, this girl’s gotta be heinous under the long hair. She’s gotta be snaggle tooth dogged to be this good.
I can picture her: bucked out teeth, cross eyed, huge witch moles on her nose and shit. Probably has a voice like a ferret on crank or a warthog with indigestion.
But damn, can she fuckin’ play.
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. And I’ve heard a lot of amazing girl shredders in my time. I’ve watched Nita Strauss and Courtney Cox of The Iron Maidens play live at Paladino’s out in the valley. They’re amazing shredders and they’re both hot. Too bad they both had boyfriends when I asked them out. But they’re not the only hot shredders out there. There’s Orianthi Panagaris, Ruyter Suys, Nori Bucci, and tons more all over the world.
But none of them are as good as this Skin Trade babe on stage. She takes the cake.
That’s why she has to be fucking grotesque.
She’s too damn good.
Mystery girl slips her guitar pick between her hidden lips to free up her right hand. Then both her hands work eight fingers on the fretboard like spider legs. The sound is a neo-classical melody at warp speed, but fluid, hypnotic, incredible, like Yngwie and Jennifer Batten had a love child.
Without realizing it, I’ve wedged all the way through the crowd. I’m at the foot of the stage, trying to get a better look at this mystery guitar goddess hidden under her pile of hair.
Her left hand slides up the neck of her Fender to the 22nd fret and she wails on the whammy bar with her right. Her Strat screams in her hands. She flips her head back and her hair hangs in the air for eternity, framing her face.
Her incredible face.
She’s as beautiful as her playing.
This babe is too good to be true. I blink my eyes, thinking I’m dreaming.
But I’m not dreaming.
I’m in awe.
Next thing I know, I’m adjusting my dick in my pants. It’s jammed down the leg of my jeans like a tree trunk. I’m so turned on watching her play, I’m having an auditory orgasm. I wonder if I’m gonna shoot my load right where I stand.
Her final high note continues to sing out and her right hand flies up in a victorious fist.
The crowd erupts with roars and cheers of approval.
I shake my head and smirk to myself.
She’s fucking amazing.
My dick is harder than steel.
I need to meet this girl bad.
Then her eyes lock on mine and I’m done.
Chapter 7
VICTORY
A random guy at the foot of the stage reaches up and grabs at my ankle where I’ve got the toe of my platform heel planted on the speaker monitor at the front of the stage. Another guy does the same thing a moment later. They’re just trying to touch me because I’m on stage, but if I’m not careful, one of them is going to accidentally trip me.
I’m working the whammy bar on my Fender, coaxing screaming feedback out of m
y Marshall half-stack.
Every guitar solo has to have a big finish.
I’ve always wanted to set my guitar on fire at the end of the show like Jimi Hendrix, but I’ve only got one guitar. Maybe I need to set myself on fire instead. Nikki Sixx used to do it at Mötley Crüe shows all the time.
I look at the guys in the crowd below and spot this big hot handsome guy standing head and shoulders above everyone else.
And like that, I am on fire.
I’m up in flames like I’ve never been in my entire life.
Not only is the hot handsome guy taller than all the others, he’s so beautiful, it hurts. Standing amongst the other metal heads in the crowd, he’s like a giant diamond shining from a pile of grimy coal. I have the sudden image of me grabbing that diamond and shouting “My precious!” like I’m that weird bald Gollum dude in the Lord Of The Rings movies.
On top of that, he stares at me with his priceless brown eyes like he’s discovered the secrets of the universe. Maybe he wants to yell “My precious!” too?
Crazy nervousness suddenly tickles through my entire body, which is odd, because I never get nervous on stage. I think Brown Eyes is causing it. His awestruck baby browns have this unguarded wonder that slips beneath my defenses and ignites my being with pure lust.
The heat that sweeps through me makes the audience induced adrenalin rush I was riding seem like a light breeze. This new fire is a hurricane of heat, exploding out from my heart and cascading down my stomach to splash against the base of my pelvis, right at the root.
My core heats up and I’m suddenly broiling inside my stage costume.
Heat.
I want to fan my face, but my hands are busy on my guitar working the strings.
I have to keep playing, but I can’t stop looking at this guy. Every cell in my body explodes like bombs. Inside me it’s World War Four.
My subconscious tugs at my frazzled awareness and reminds me I need to keep playing!
Rex and Bobby start the final verse riff of the song without me!
Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3 Page 3