AS SOON AS Lucky opened the bus door the skunky odor overwhelmed me.
"Nice air freshener," I commented, lifting a sarcastic brow.
"What?" Already a step above me, the lead singer swiveled to glance down at me.
I gave him the eye. "You should call this thing the canna-bus."
"Clever. It’s actually known as the rage cage since being stuck on it for more than a few days tends to raise your ire.” He introduced me to the bus driver buckled into a seat that sat just above the pavement level. He looked just like Meatloaf, the singer from the seventies. He actually went by that nickname. Waving me forward after introducing me to the driver, Lucky entered an area that resembled my efficiency apartment only much narrower. Marsha glanced at the black leather couches on either side and flopped onto the one on the left. The one on the right was laden with stacks of colorful papers.
Cell at her ear, Marsha let out a long sigh, closed her eyes and rested her head against the back cushion. She was wrangling with the credit card company again. Not that it mattered. I couldn’t see how we were going to get the vehicle back once the concert was over and the repairs were made anyhow.
A large poster fell at my feet. I picked it up and put it back on top of the pile, noticing that someone had taped other similar ones to the windows. I leaned in to get a better look. Portraits of the band. Stylized graphics with the band’s name. A couple of elaborate drawings of dragons.
"Our fans made them," Lucky explained stepping closer.
"So many?"
"Yeah." He looked sheepish. "We've been on the road since March. I think you Yanks are starting to take a liking to us."
"You've got a great sound."
"Thanks," he returned in a matter of fact tone, minus any hint of arrogance. Maybe I had misjudged him as Mars had hinted.
"Would you like a tour of the coach before you get comfortable?"
"Sure." I was curious. I hadn't ever been on Ivan's. He said the guys in the band were too crazy and that he preferred to stay with me at hotels when I had visited him on tour.
"Well as I said, we call it the cage. It has five sections. C1 through 5. C5 you already saw. It's that tiny spot where Meatloaf sits.” His bicep bunching distractingly, he hooked his ringed thumb in a tight circle above his shoulder. "C4 is where we're standing right now. It's the main hub. The living room and what not." He gestured to the leather couches on either side before bending over the one on the right. He gathered and scooped all of the scattered fan art into one pile. Moving fluidly, he opened a large drawer strategically designed to utilize the space underneath the couch and deposited all of the papers inside it. Straightening, he closed the drawer using his foot. Standing so close to him, my flip flops to his loosely laced, thickly soled biker boots, every inch of his six foot two frame registered. His head nearly touched the ceiling. His wide shoulders eclipsed the track lights. Cast in his shadow, my heart fluttered. I knew Lucky wasn’t as easily dismissible as I wanted to believe.
"C3. Kitchen.” He pointed to a small counter and a sink that brimmed with melting ice and half consumed bottles of liquor. There was a microwave bolted into the wall above it. "Rubbish through this door.” He opened it to show me. "There's a hole in the bottom that leads underneath the bus. We store a lot of the equipment and larger items there."
"Where we put our luggage," I recalled.
"Yeah." He pointed to a banquette. His boldly crafted bracelets, one braided black leather with a large silver dragon clasp, and the other a coined edged silver helicopter rotor chain, clanked together around his wrist when he returned his arm to his side. I recognized both as King Baby designs, a favorite of Ivan and his bandmates. "Dining area." He walked backward, citrusy rum scented cologne curtaining the air around us. I tried not to fixate on how good he smelled. I tried not to perseverate on the sinuous muscles flexing beneath his form fitting clothing. I tried not to focus on the impressive bulge behind the fly of his jeans. I failed on all counts. Impossible to ignore, undeniably sexy as hell, he wreaked havoc on my senses.
The motor coach suddenly began to sway, uniformly back and forth like a pendulum. I glanced out the window, surprised to see that the bus remained parked. Heavy breathing accompanied the rhythmic rocking. Revelation quickly dawned. Someone was getting some major action. Attempting to peer past the lead singer, my eyes widened when a deep throaty masculine groan emanated from the darkened hallway behind him.
"That’s the C2 section." Lucky rubbed the back of his neck.
"The sleeping area,” I guessed.
"Sometimes," he quipped. "Other times not so much. We’ll need to hold off on touring the back for now."
Throat dry as the sounds continued, I nodded. “So beyond that is, what?" I swallowed. It suddenly felt overly warm on the bus.
"The loo. There's a shower and a sink.” The tempo of the rocking noticeably sped up. “It's filthy, nasty, dirty in there.” I bet it was. “I don't recommend using it, except for, you know, absolute necessities. We mostly use the facilities at hotels or truck stops."
"Alright." Based on what he was telling me, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to go inside that bathroom. "But you said there were five sections.” I had to raise my voice to be heard over the current gruff chanting of ‘oh, yes, oh yeses.’ My pulse began to throb. My cheeks heated. “What is C1?” I was feeling flushed.
A powerful jolt suddenly tipped the bus to one side. I grabbed the edge of the banquette table. Marsha latched onto the armrest on the couch and rolled her eyes, but remained on her call. Lucky took a step backward and leaned against the kitchen counter. A female ‘oh my God’ emanated from the back. Amusement tugged at the corners of the sexy lead singer’s full lips as the rocking motion resumed, only much faster. His long fingers curling around the granite, Lucky’s hips bucked as if he were riding a galloping horse…or a cowgirl.
"C1 is the back lounge. It has three couches that fold flat to make beds. We can go test it out ourselves in a few minutes,” he offered in a teasing tone, but I could barely focus. The festivities in the back had reached their climactic finale. Lucky’s pelvis gyrated frenetically. I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t tune out the sounds. It was awkwardly funny on one level, but it turned me on at the same time. My lips parted. My heart raced. My breaths shortened. Noting my reaction, Lucky full out grinned. “We call C1 the stabbin’ cabin."