ROCKSTAR

by Lauren Rowe

  “Liar.”

  “Swear to God! ‘She might kiss you, and she might kill you, and then throw on her blue suede shoes. I don’t dance, disco momma pretty baby, but I’d sure as hell dance with you.’”

  “I love it.” She bites her lip. “Why am I a hitwoman?”

  “Because you look lethal.” I gesture. “That hair. Your cheekbones. Those incredible lips.” I pause and then decide, fuck it. “Your insane cleavage.”

  She doesn’t look the least bit offended by that last compliment. Only turned on. “I’ve got lethal cleavage?” she says. “Wow.”

  “Hell yeah, you do, disco momma.”

  She giggles adorably, and, just that fast, I know she’s not the assassin I’d imagined her to be. She’s something far sweeter and gentler than that. But that doesn’t make her any less attractive to me. Indeed, the sweetness wafting off her, intermingled with that incredible sensuality, is actually making her even more appealing to me.

  “Why don’t you dance?” she asks.

  I shrug. “I just feel stupid when I dance. Self-conscious. I dance onstage with my guitar, when the music consumes me and I can let go completely. And I’ll sometimes dance at family weddings, but only when I’m shitfaced.”

  “I love to dance. No guitar or alcohol required.”

  I’d definitely like to see that, I think. But since it will likely come off as smarmy to say it, I move on. “Why’d you pick Elvis to ‘reimagine’ for your outfit? You could have picked any icon, right? Why him?”

  “My stepfather used to play Elvis songs all the time, so I’ve got a special place in my heart for him. I almost picked Amelia Earhart, but then I realized Elvis would be a much weirder choice. And I like weird.”

  I can’t help smiling at that. This girl just gets better and better. “You want to be a fashion designer?”

  “I thought I did when I started college. But by the end of my first year, I realized I was most interested in designing two things: wedding gowns and costumes.”

  “Costumes, as in Halloween...?”

  “No, like for the entertainment industry—for stage, film, music. Also, superhero costumes for kids. I started this club at school called The Superhero Project. We create customized superhero costumes for kids with cancer. Not known superheroes like Superman or Batman. We turn each kid into their own original superhero.”

  I’m blown away. Drowning in attraction for her. Tingling. Electrified. Getting hard. “That sounds amazing. You personally started this club?”

  “Yeah, I got the idea my freshman year three years ago. And then my friends started wanting to help out, and now we’re an official, chartered club.”

  Yeah, I’ve clearly misread this girl. She’s no hitwoman. She’s something even more intriguing to me. She’s genuinely good. “That’s so cool, Violet.”

  “Believe me, I get more out of the whole thing than the kids do. They’re so inspiring to me.” She flashes me a lovely smile. “So, tell me about you. What makes you tick, Dax?”

  “Music. It’s everything to me. When I’m writing a song and it’s flowing, that’s like a hand job for my soul. When it’s finished and I get to play it for the first time from beginning to end, that’s the blow job. When I play it for someone else for the first time, that’s fucking. And when I perform it for a whole club full of people...” I shudder. “Oh, baby, that’s the orgasm.”

  She looks equal parts amused and aroused. Her cheeks are flushed. Her chest is heaving. “That’s literally the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” she says. She pats the loveseat next to her. “Scoot closer and tell me more, sexy boy. This is getting good.”

  My dick throbbing, I scoot closer to her on the loveseat and, instantly, when our thighs touch and our bodies meld, I feel a current of electricity course between us. I grab her hand and she makes it clear she’s glad I did.

  “What do you want to know?” I ask softly, my eyes locked with hers.

  She rubs the top of my hand, sending a current of arousal into my dick. “Tell me more about songwriting. Tell me how it makes you feel.”

  I can’t remember the last time I felt this drawn to someone. I’m having a chemical reaction to this girl. Like she just slipped me some molly or something—like every cell of my body is suddenly wracked with energy and light and yearning. “Songwriting is my art,” I say. “It’s what I was born to do. It makes me feel alive. It makes me feel like a superhero.”

  She smiles at that. “I feel the same way about my designs. If I’m feeling down or blue, I pull out my sketch pad and let my imagination run wild, and I’m instantly feeling good. It’s like a drug.”

  “Exactly.”

  Our conversation flows easily. We ask each other questions and laugh and nod profusely with understanding. It turns out, we’re two of a kind, Violet and me. Kindred spirits. And it feels amazing. Like walking through the front door of my childhood house and smelling my mom’s home cooking in the air. Maybe my brother’s dog, Ralph, greeting me at the door. It’s a feeling of rightness. Of being seen. It’s a feeling I never get with new people. Ever. But, holy fuck, I’m getting it with Violet, in addition to wanting to fuck the living hell out of her.

  The conversation twists and turns, and, soon, I’m telling Violet about how I regularly lose track of time for hours on end while writing or playing. And Violet laughs and hoots and says the exact same thing happens to her.

  She says, “I just go and go for hours, without stopping to eat or drink or even pee! When I get really, really passionately focused on something, eight hours can pass in the blink of an eye.”

  “Oh, God, exactly, Violet.”

  One of Violet’s legs is slung over my lap at this point. My arm is resting comfortably around her shoulders. And by the look on her face, I know her heart is beating as wildly as mine.

  “God, losing track of time like that is bliss, isn’t it?” Violet says. “I live for it.”

  I nod enthusiastically. “Did you know there’s a name for that psychological phenomenon? When the ego falls away, and you lose track of time completely, and every action flows into the next without conscious thought?”

  She shakes her head. She looks like she’s hanging on my every word.

  I touch her dragonfly tattoo, wishing I could touch a whole lot more of her than that. “Flow. That’s the technical name for it—what psychologists call it.”

  “Flow,” she whispers reverently. And, holy hell, the way her lips form the shape of a perfect “O” when she says the word makes my cock strain against my jeans.

  “I think people like us,” she says, “the ones who experience flow, are the lucky ones.”

  People like us. I can’t believe Violet’s sexy mouth just uttered those particular words, unprovoked. That’s the name of the best song I’ve ever written in my life—the song that’s about to be released as my band’s first single on Sunday. When I wrote it, I had a fantasy girl in mind. Nobody in particular. But now that those words just came out of Violet’s sensual mouth, I’m suddenly bone-certain I wrote every word of “People Like Us” about her.

  “Flow is the best feeling in the world,” Violet says, apparently unaware I’m sitting here, rocked to my core and hard as a rock. She adds, “Flow is even better than sex, don’t you think?”

  I pause, trying to determine if she’s joking. And when it’s clear she’s serious, I say, “Uh, no. Flow is fucking awesome. And it’s definitely way better than mediocre sex. But there’s no way in hell it’s better than fantastic sex, because that’s the kind of sex that itself generates flow. The sickest kind of flow imaginable, actually. Way better than any drug.”

  Oh, I’ve definitely got Violet’s attention now. To put it bluntly, she suddenly looks like she wants to suck my dick. “You’ve experienced flow... during sex?”

  I grab her thighs and pull them unequivocally over my lap. “Not every time. Rarely, to be honest. But, yeah. Now and again. Just like I experience genuine flow only rarely when I write songs. It�
�s always the goal. The brass ring. The pinnacle. But flow is lightning in a bottle, in any context, right? The exception, not the rule.”

  She slides her arm around my neck as she nods her agreement.

  My lips are mere inches from hers. “But when flow does arrive... especially during sex... oh, God, Violet. Talk about bliss. It’s ecstasy like nothing you’ve experienced before.”

  She looks like she’s about to have an orgasm, right here and now. I take her hand and swirl the pad of my thumb around and around the top of it, the same way I’d swirl it over her clit if she were naked in my bed right now.

  I whisper, “You’ve never experienced flow during sex, Violet?”

  She shakes her head and levels me with her stormy eyes. “I’d very much like to, though.”

  That’s all the invitation I need. I lean in and press my lips against hers... and when she immediately opens her lips and invites me inside, I slide my tongue into her mouth and devour her lips with mine.

  Fireworks.

  As my tongue dances with Violet’s, as my lips assault hers, it’s the Fourth of July inside my body. I put my palm on Violet’s face as our kiss deepens and intensifies, every fiber of my body hungry for her. I feel compelled to get inside this incredible girl, to touch the farthest reaches of her, the places nobody else has touched, and Violet kisses me back with the same frenzied need, like her next breath depends on this electrifying kiss.

  After several minutes of passionate kissing, we break apart, both of us panting and glowing with our mutual desire. She looks around the patio, like she’s only just now remembering where we are. Or, maybe, she’s feeling embarrassed she just swallowed my face in public. Either way, she’s adorably self-conscious. Bashful, even.

  I trace her lower lip with the pad of my thumb. “You wanna get out of here?”

  Her chest heaves. Her stormy eyes ignite. “Do you live nearby? I’m staying with Miranda this weekend, so...”

  “Yeah, I live nearby, but my roommate texted me fifteen minutes ago to call dibs on our apartment tonight. I’m down to get us a hotel room, if you’re up for that. I mean, no pressure. We can just kiss and talk, if that’s all you want to do. I just want to be alone with you, Violet. Lie down with you... Get naked, if you’re willing.”

  She smiles. “Seeing as how merely kissing you sent me into a state of flow, and since I’m only here for the weekend, I most definitely think we should have sex.”

  A huge smile spreads across my face. “Sounds good to me.”

  Violet bites her sexy lip. “If sex with you feels even half as good as kissing you, then I’m gonna be ‘flowing’ with you all night long.”

  Chapter 5

  Violet

  Our clothes are strewn on the floor. My panties are flung across the hotel room. And my thighs are spread wide—as wide as they’ll go—as Dax eats me with the passion of a starving man. Oh, God, this boy is good. Passionate and talented beyond anything I’ve experienced before. Not only is he voraciously licking and fucking me with his tongue and lips and mouth, he’s doing insane things with his hands, too. Stretching my folds wide with one hand while stroking a precise spot deep inside me with his other. It’s not my G-spot he’s manipulating so deliciously. Relentlessly. Like a convict tunneling himself out of prison with a plastic spoon. It’s a location on my body I didn’t even know existed. A spot that’s giving me such outrageous pleasure, I’ve already had two orgasms from his manipulations... and I’m just about to have my third.

  I grip the top of Dax’s long, blonde mane as my pleasure rises higher and higher. Holy hell, my eyes are rolling back into my head. I’m making crazy noises. Losing my mind. Finally, the pleasure that’s been mounting inside me releases ferociously into the most intense orgasm of my life.

  When I come down from my body-quaking climax, Dax is sitting up, looking feral. His long hair is wild and looks like it was spun from pure gold. His lips and chin are smeared with evidence of my arousal.

  “I gotta get inside you,” he growls.

  “Do it,” I whisper, drifting my fingertips across my breast.

  He grabs a condom off the nightstand, lies on his back, and guides me onto his hard-on with a fierceness that snatches my breath from my lungs. I moan loudly at the invasion of his body inside mine and he replies with a guttural moan.

  “Violet,” Dax blurts, his fingers gripping my hips, his cock impaling me. “What are you doing to me?” As I ride him, he sits up and begins furiously devouring my breasts. With a low moan, he sucks on my left nipple so hard, I think I’m going to pass out—and, a moment later, an orgasm of such indescribable intensity slams into me, I literally scream with pleasure.

  Dax comes inside me, gritting out my name, and I throw my arms around his neck and collapse into a sweaty heap.

  Good lord.

  That wasn’t just sex to me. It was a spiritual experience. An awakening. My body did things it’s never done before. I felt pleasure I didn’t know was possible. I just had multiple orgasms? Come on. And the way our bodies fused together... the way we fit. God help me, I felt like our souls fused when we were at the peak of pleasure together. I’m sure I’ll never forget it as long as I live.

  Dax nuzzles my nose. “That was incredible.”

  “Magic,” I whisper.

  “You’re magic.”

  “So are you.”

  “Please say you’re not in any rush to get out of here. That you can stay the whole night with me and let me fuck you, over and over again, Lionel Richie Style?”

  I tilt my head. “Lionel Richie Style?”

  He grins. “‘All Night Long.’”

  I giggle. “Yeah, I’ve got all night. If I didn’t, sweetheart, trust me, I’d cancel all my silly plans.”

  Chapter 6

  Violet

  “Okay, ask me another one,” Dax says with a seductive smile.

  We’re leaning back on opposite sides of a large, luxurious bathtub, our legs intertwined, and we’re playing a game of Ask Me Anything. Dax’s long, blonde hair is tied loosely behind his head. My naked breasts are pink and flushed from the hot bath water—or, maybe, my constant state of arousal in Dax’s presence. I’ve never felt so comfortable this fast with anyone. So safe. So free. So incessantly turned-on. If I had a genie in a bottle, I’d wish for this amazing night to never end.

  “What’s your lucky number?” I ask.

  Dax doesn’t hesitate. “Five. I’m the fifth of five kids—I’ve got three older brothers and a sister. So I’ve always believed good things come in fives.”

  “Aren’t good things supposed to come in threes?”

  “Three as a lucky number is for underachievers.”

  I laugh.

  “What’s your lucky number?” he asks.

  “Three.”

  We both laugh.

  “I’m not joking, actually,” I say, giggling. “Three’s always been my lucky number.”

  “Aim higher, dude.”

  I splash him playfully and he laughs.

  “Ask me another one, disco momma,” he says. “You ask the best questions.”

  “Okay.” I bite my lip. And then, “What’s something sneaky you did as a kid?”

  “Something sneaky?” Dax chuckles. “Hmm. So much to choose from. Well, the first thing that comes to mind is the time I was goofing off in my family’s dining room—a room I wasn’t supposed to play in—and accidentally broke my mother’s prized crystal vase.”

  “Uh oh. How old were you?”

  “Eight or nine. And rather than tell my mother what happened, I went straight to my oldest brother, Colby, for help. He’s ten years older than me, so I legit thought he had magical powers. Colby was like, ‘Okay, little dude. Calm down. I’ll help you Superglue it back together because, one, I’m betting Mom won’t even notice, and, two, I’ve always hated that stupid vase. But if Mom does notice, you’ve got to promise you’ll come clean, right away, and without mentioning my name.’ So, of course, I said, ‘Deal.’ So, we
Superglued the stupid thing back together—horribly, I might add—and slipped it right back on its shelf in the dining room.”

  I giggle. “And did your Mom notice?”

  “Yeah. Five years later.” He chuckles. “One day, out of nowhere, she was suddenly like, ‘What are all these lines and cracks on my vase? Which of you hooligans did this despicable thing?’”

  I laugh and laugh. “Did you come clean?”

  He nods. “A promise is a promise. But, come on. Five years? I said, ‘Look, Motherboard, if it took you five years to notice my busted-ass glue job, then this vase clearly wasn’t as ‘precious’ to you as you’ve been claiming. I think we can both agree the window for punishment of this crime has long since closed.’” Dax laughs heartily, and so do I. “She was pissed at me for, like, five seconds, but then she couldn’t help laughing her ass off. I mean, come on. Not noticing that dumbass glue job for five freaking years was a bigger crime than the original one.”

  I can’t stop giggling. “I love that your mom laughed about it. I don’t think mine would.”

  “That’s my mom. She runs a tight ship in some ways. But she’s also a huge believer in choosing joy. She always says, ‘Forgive, forget, and laugh, whenever you can.’ They’re not just words to her. She absolutely lives them.”

  Out of nowhere, I feel like I’ve been zapped by a Taser—like the glorious, beaming smile on Dax’s face has literally stunned me. I take a deep, steadying breath. “Did you ever tell your mom about Colby’s involvement?”

  “Hell no. Colby did, though. At Thanksgiving dinner that year. Mom mentioned the vase and Colby was like, ‘Oh, yeah, about that...’” Dax shakes his head, chuckling. “Oh, man, Mom was shocked to find out Colby had helped me. She’d thought Colby was incapable of deception, just because he’s this real-life Superman kind of dude. Not to mention, he’s horrible at lying, just like me. But what my mother didn’t fully appreciate about Colby is that, yes, he’s Superman—but I’m his kryptonite. For some reason, Colby’s always had this fatal soft spot for me. Whenever I’ve gotten into a jam in my life, Colby’s been right there to help me out. Now that I’m older, I’ve realized I have to be extra careful not to take advantage of him, just because Colby will not only give me the shirt off his back, he’ll give me every shirt in his closet, too. Plus, his pants and shoes and underwear.”