She smiles against my lips. “What does it feel like I’m doing?”
I pump against her hand. “Being a bad influence.”
Her laugh cuts through the night. “Yeah. You’re the rock star, but I’m the bad influence.” She kisses me again and climbs around until she lifts her sundress. The feel of her wet pussy on me, the chance that someone might walk by at any moment, the heat of her promise, it all sends me into a frenzy.
I edge back so we’re partially tucked into one of those forts, and then I hold her hips to guide her onto me. The tight silk of her is pure heaven. But I want more. Can’t get up in here—the ceiling is too low. So I roll us until she’s on her back, and I’m still inside.
Even though we could get caught, I take my time. She’s in no rush either. I hold her close, needing her heat, her scent, her body. Her. Our voices and groans echo off the plastic playstructure, filling the cool air. She arches up to meet me every time, and when I kiss her, I feel her throb on my cock. So, I lengthen the kiss and move slower to drag it out of her.
That climax shudders through us both. First her, then me. But we don’t stop kissing. If I could, I’d kiss her forever.
24
SALEM
Quincy sendsus out to three cities. Phoenix, San Diego, Seattle, then back to Vegas. A mini launch to ride “Locket” while we finish the rest. Lou stays in Vegas, building the next drops and tightening the live session replay. I don’t like leaving her, but work is work and the road is the road.
I set rules for myself before we roll. I say them out loud in the crew room so there are witnesses.
“No hotel bars. No after-parties. I’m in bed by one.”
The backline tech whistles. The monitor op says, “Ten bucks he breaks all three by Phoenix.” The lighting lead starts a pool on a scrap of gaffer tape. Knox raises an eyebrow. Houston smiles at me like he already knows I’m going to stick it. I put a twenty on the table and writeI winnext to it.
Phoenix is hot. That’s the nicest thing I can say for the city. Load-in at ten, line check at three, a short press thing in the corner of the stage that Quincy says will “seed the market.” Sounds gross, but whatever.
I keep my head down, hit what needs hitting, and drink water like it’s a job. In Phoenix, it is. Between the soundcheck and doors, the band down the hall pops a bottle and yells for us to come toast. I wave from the doorway and don’t go in. Rule one holds.
Show’s good. Loud crowd. New songs land tighter than they should this early. We end on “Locket,” lights down, whisper up, and the room gets still the right way.
After, the promoter tries to drag us to a bar with some local DJ. I shake his hand, say “another time,” and get in the van. Houston comes with me. Knox finishes the settlement and follows. The crew clocks the time when I badge into my room. 12:46. Rule three holds.
There’s a knock at 12:58. It’s our support act, high on the night, asking if I want to meet “friends.” I tell them I like all my teeth and shut the door without being a jerk. I text Louin bed by oneand a photo of the digital clock because I know she’ll send it to the group chat and I want the record. She replies with a thumbs-up and aproud of youthat lands harder than it should. I sleep.
San Diego is prettier and softer. The crew doubles the bet. “No way he keeps this up,” the stage left tech says.
I pretend I don’t hear it.
We load in, do the afternoon thing, eat catering that tastes like catering, and play a tight show. I walk past two hotel bars on my way to the elevator. Both smell like the version of me that used to end nights on the floor of somebody’s story. I keep walking. The elevator doors close on a guy shouting my name. I let them.
12:38. In bed. Lights out. I dream about nothing, which is just how I like it.
Seattle is the one that matters. The room has history and an echo in the walls. We’ve got radio in the afternoon, a short acoustic, then doors, then the full set.
No room for stupid. No room for old habits.
Backstage is a hallway with too many memories. The paint is new over old tags I could still draw from memory. I’m flipping sticks in my hands when I see him before I hear him.
“Salem,” Mike Halligan says, like a person who found treasure.
He hobbles in on his carbon prosthesis. White guy, hair dyed black, thinning, jaw tight, eyes wired. He used to be a drummer. He lost the leg in an accident. He never got his talent back the way he wanted. A year later, he won the lotto. Since then, he pops up backstage like a ghost looking for a chorus. We were in trouble together once.
That version of us needs to stay dead.
Houston clocks him and takes a left into catering. Knox clocks him and goes the other way toward the stage. They leave him to me because back in the day, he and I were stupid together.
“Mike. How’s it going?”
He has a little entourage. Two women in heels not built for backstage, and a guy with a jacket that cost a mortgage payment. Mike shakes something in his pocket. Pills rattle together. “Time to party.”
