“WHAT DID YOU think of the lead singer from that last band?” Marsha asked from her position beside me in the pit in front of the stage. We had been on our feet with barely room to breathe for hours. My feet ached in my heels, and the Texas summer heat threatened to wilt me. Yet except for fanning the back of her neck with her hand, my bestie looked as elegant as she had when we'd first entered the outdoor venue. I admired her neat chignon. She usually wore her hair loose, but the sophisticated twist was more practical for the filming she would do later and complimented her fringed vest, tube top, short shorts and tall boots.
“He was alright,” I replied carefully since she had seemed pretty interested in the guy. I thought his singing had been ok, but the way he had twirled his mic cord like a lasso had been distracting and cheesy. Certainly not cool like Roger Daltry. I kept wondering when the microphone would slip and conk one of his bandmates in the head. "What did his roadie hand you?" I moved closer to her, hitching the metal chain on my clutch higher up my shoulder and giving a stern glare to the guy behind me. He kept bumping my ass with his crotch. I got the idea it wasn’t accidental.
Marsha unfolded the cocktail napkin. It had the name of the venue printed on one corner and ‘wanna fuck?' handwritten on the other in messy masculine scrawl.
"Original." I lifted my gaze to her face and rolled my eyes.
"I think he’s cute.” She shrugged. “But I’m not surprised you didn’t notice. You've been distracted since the encounter with tall, dark and handsome back in our room.”
"Only because he’s exactly the type of arrogant ass that spurred us to do this."
She searched my features analytically and nodded after a beat. "So who's next?" She returned her gaze to the stage where roadies in black t-shirts with ‘staff’ in white block lettering scurried around changing out the set layout yet again.
"I don't recognize the name.” I dropped my chin to look at the lineup I had saved on my phone. “They're a last minute substitute for Brutal Strength."
She arched a brow. "They must be a pretty big deal to be subbed in so late in the program." She reached in her short’s pocket and withdrew her own cell. "What's their name?" Her fingers were poised over the screen to Google them, but the snap of cloth and the unfurling of a black curtain with Chinese symbols in red and a large dragon in gold returned our attention to the stage. As my brain began to process the strangely familiar image, a blazing guitar riff rent the humid night air. Even in the heat, the scintillating sound raised chill bumps of anticipation on my arms. Four pale guys in black leather, denim and silver chains strutted out onto the stage like they owned it. The one in the lead of the rock ‘n’ roll pack carried an electric guitar.
Lucky.
The guy from the connecting room.
I recognized him immediately, though he looked different on stage. Larger than six foot two. More intimidating. Sexier. If that were even possible. Someone had artfully drawn black slashes on his high cheekbones and heavily outlined his striking blue eyes to accentuate them. My heart fluttered. I acknowledged to myself that my continued distraction since landing at his feet earlier had more to do with attraction than disdain.
Lucky confidently strode to the center mic as if he were well accustomed to performing before an audience as large as the one at the Gexa Energy Pavilion. The bassist sporting a shooting star that streaked across his face went to Lucky’s right. The rhythm man bleeding treble clef tears headed stage left. The drummer decorated with a black eye mask in the shape of twin hammers nimbly hopped onto the riser behind the other three. The lights flashed in coordination with their movements, a choreographed, slick opening. An anticipatory hush fell over the twenty thousand in the sold out crowd as the frontman leaned forward into the mic.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the band's slash faced leader began, but was interrupted by a piercing female voice that screamed, "We love you, Lucky." His lush lips curved. "We're the Dragons from the UK." His mouth hovered over the mic. My lips tingled as I allowed myself a momentary fantasy of being close enough to feel the warm gust of his breath. "Get ready." His voice dropped an intimate smoldering notch lower. "Because the shit in here's about to get crazy."
Marsha tossed me one brief, wide eyed look over her shoulder before returning her attention back to the band. She recognized him, too. Obviously. But there was no time to process as the band immediately launched into their set. She got into it along with everyone else, bouncing in time to the raucous beat. We found ourselves swept forward along with the crowd, a wave drawn by the planetary pull of the Dragon’s compelling sound and Lucky's frontman charisma. Their opening tune was catchy, danceable, seventies glam. Though it could be argued that their presentation was not quite perfectly polished, they rocked hard, and Lucky…well, Lucky’s singing voice was truly unforgettable, his 'hey's' and 'baby's' almost operatic at times. He ended the Dragons’ first number to thunderous applause, took his mic out of the stand and prowled over to our side of the stage. I wrapped my fingers tighter around the cold metal of the barricade fence in front of me and tried not to stare at him, but I couldn't help myself. He glanced down at me as I looked up at him. It was nearly an exact replay of our earlier encounter, but at least I wasn't on my knees this time.
His kohl lined eyes made another leisurely pass over my form. My long hair was held up by a pair of chopsticks, and I wore my blue dress now. But the dark hunger in his gaze made me feel as if I were standing before him completely naked. He slung an arm corded with muscle over his guitar to hold it close to his body and squatted down low directly in front of me. I imagined I could hear the stretching of the fibers in his dark jeans. I hadn’t failed to notice how well they fit him. They were buttoned now, more’s the pity, but tight in all the right places.
"C'mon," he coaxed, his delicious accent amplified through the venue speakers. "Get into it, Angel." He wore a black vest without a shirt underneath. It spread wide revealing the glorious upper torso I had seen in its entirety earlier. Smooth musculature. Flat abdomen. V between his hips. A cover model physique. He apparently had noticed that I had remained statue still during the first number while everyone else had been moving. "I wanna see your hands over your head clapping." His long, slender, silver ring adorned fingers gripped his mic as he spoke into it, the deep rolling timbre of his voice sliding over my skin as smooth as silk. He arched a taunting brow. “And your hips,” he grinned, “grinding...to the beat."
"Dream on." I lifted my chin, the clashing of our gazes making a rush of heat settle between my thighs as though he had stroked me with his tongue in the most intimate of places. Lucky’s eyes darkened as if he could read my thoughts. Worried about my inability to control my mind where he was concerned, I dropped my gaze breaking the connection between us.
"What do you think, Dallas?” Lucky asked, addressing the crowd. “Are you ready for some more?"
As the crowd roared their affirmative response, I lifted my gaze. My eyes latched onto his sexy ass as he made his way back to the middle of the stage. I told myself I was relieved that he had moved away.
"Excellent." The frontman wiped his brow with a towel. "It's quite hot in here tonight, isn't it? But you haven't put your work in unless you break a sweat, right? That's what I always say." He tapped on the body of his guitar, a smile ghosting his lips as his gaze slid my way. "This next number is a top ten in the UK right now. Sing along if you know the words. It's called, "'Lessons in Love'." He turned slightly and gave a nod to his treble clef adorned rhythm man. The guy shook out his shaggy brown hair before shifting to face him. Electric guitar to guitar, they played off one other effortlessly seeming to anticipate each other's moves with the back and forth chords. The bassist beside them was chill. Rocked back on his heels, his eyes heavy lidded, his shooting star on low glow, he grooved a slow burn amid the showier theatrics of his bandmates.
My ears were ringing by the time the song chock full of cynical lyrics about love ended. Was it meant to be a shot at me? He didn’t even know who I was. Did he? While I wondered, the crowd went nuts. Lucky thanked them and introduced the next number.
Marsha grabbed my arm. "When you're done with Rayne you are so knocking on the connecting door. You totally need to get Lucky."