Some men liked their women feminine, natural, with virgin skin, and an innocent attitude. No accounting for taste. However, Chris adored them alternative, proudly wearing their eccentricities for everyone to see. They didn’t owe the world a fucking explanation about what they did to their bodies or who they banged; it was their choice. All he cared about was that they didn't pretend to be something they weren't. These types of women were such a colorful explosion of blunt personalities. So damn sexy and authentic.
And right now, he could definitely use someone to shake his mind so he could stop thinking. Plus, they would probably never see each other again because she wasn’t coming along on the tour. Frivolous? Maybe. But it was what it was.
Chris didn’t flaunt his inability to connect on a deeper level—it was a struggle sometimes—and he always respected every single woman he slept with. He loved it this way, though. No commitment. No strings attached. No need to do any type of useless social dance to get to know each other. Just two humans giving each other some temporary pleasure.
Between a few jokes and an exchange of impressions about Buried Alive’s trajectory and development regarding their sound, several minutes went by. But Chris didn’t want Uwe to chop-suey his balls, which was what would happen if he was late.
“I’m really enjoying this conversation, would love to continue, but I still gotta take a shower”—he pulled up the side of his sweaty tee—“and I have dinner with my crew.”
“Oh, sure. Right. Sorry for taking up so much of your time.” Her brow furrowed with guilt.
“It’s alright.” He flashed her a lopsided grin. “You wanna meet later tonight, though?”
She blinked fast, mouth agape. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.” Chris could almost see how she melted on the spot as the words rolled off his tongue.
“Yes!”
“Come find me on my bus after midnight?”
“I will.” She bit her bottom lip in an extremely suggestive way. “See you later,” she practically whispered the words before walking away, swaying her hips.
Chris smirked, his chest puffing and his damn ego soaring.Tonight’s the night I get fucking laid.Finally.
Dinnerwithpizza,beer,and friends went great. Here they were now, chilling by their bus. Aside from random strangers bobbing their heads at the blues rhythm Erik was marking on his practice drum kit, for once it was only Buried Alive’s crew. It made the moment that much homier and calmer than the last few nights when they’d gathered with several bands.
Everything was supposed to be packed in the trailer, but they were so relaxed and itching to play, Uwe had given them the green light. Actually, he was the one on the guitar while Colson had taken Marc’s position on the bass. If the band broke something and couldn’t perform for a while, these dudes could definitely get the job done. In all seriousness, the harmony they had just put together while jamming was so groovy and smooth that the fuck-o-meter had blown. They were using some trashy portable amps, yet Chris was feeling every note resonating through his skin and each one of his organs.
He was glad they were putting on this spontaneous show and filling his mind with such wonderful sounds, leaving space for little else.
Over the years he’d honed the art of redirecting his compulsive behaviors, fixating on questionable “healthier”things and pretending he wasn’t feeling uncomfortable when he was, but tonight his skills seemed to be as broken as him. Nothing he had done during the last few hours—listening to Nat and Leah ramble on and on about how cute cats are, and even trying to fucking read an eBook on his phone—had worked. He’d constantly gotten distracted, drifting away from their conversation without realizing it, and his brain was adamant about not retaining any of the words his eyes were going over.
He would have liked to say it was simple exhaustion, but it was Marc sitting with a cheesy grin on his face that was bothering him so much.
After seeing the stupid name ofBlackRose_Paulon his friend’s phone, Chris had gotten all tense and anxious, the sensation biting the back of his neck, not going away for a second. The bassist still talking to that douche wasn’t helping, either.
From what he’d been able to see the few times he’d peeked over his shoulder, the dude, who didn’t seem to know how to take no for an answer, hadn’t stopped praising Marc:“Come on man, you’re super talented, I bet you wouldn’t have issues adapting to our style”. “Just give us a chance, come by one day when you get back, jam a little with us, and see how you feel about it”. “Brandt plays in two bands too and he’s doing fine.”
What was bothering Chris, however, was that their conversation had been going on for a damn hour. As far as he knew, Marc and this jackass weren’t besties. In fact, the bassist had never even looked his way until one nightBlackrose_Paulwalked around like he was the shit when he was hardly a fucking fart, hitting on him. Good thing it got nowhere because the man was like a dumb, fake, pathetic AliExpress version of Children Of Bodom’s frontman, Alexi—fucking God—Laiho, and Chris couldn’t stand him. Still, there he was now, chatting with him.
Marc chuckled, gaze glued to his screen.
Chris narrowed his eyes at him as bile crept up his throat and that uneasy sentiment of his friend being stolen planted itself in his soul. Buried Alive wouldn’t be the same without Marc. Just imagining the rehearsal room, the bus, or the stage without him made his heart scrunch and shudder with both sadness and pettiness.
No, the bassist didn’t belong to him. They hadn’t signed a blood pact or anything, even if the band was liketheirbaby. But it was annoying that instead of enjoying time with his friends, he isolated himself, ignoring everyone, as if there wasn’t a better moment to do this.
Another soft cackle.
Chris scoffed. “He isn’t even that funny.”
“What?” Marc asked, still snickering.
“Paul,” Chris deadpanned. “Also, shouldn’t he be asleep? Isn’t it like six in the morning there or something?”
The bassist raised a brow, and his borderline flirty chuckle turned into a smirk. “Jealous, Schmidt?”
“Of you talking with that assclown? No.” He pressed his back harder on his chair as a shiver ran down his spine, hands tightening around his own phone as he glared at the book still opened in the app. “But if you’re gonna be talking business with another band, you could at least be here when you’re with us.”
