Joel
ONSTAGE, THERE ARE different levels of multitasking. There’s Adam, who belts out lyrics while working the crowd. There’s Mike, who pounds at the drums with his hands and the pedals with his feet. There are Shawn and Kit, who pretend to be focused on the performance instead of each other—whatever that’s about. And there’s me, trying to keep the beat while Dee is standing offstage in a tiny black skirt that I swear to God is riding higher and higher every time I look her way.
Between songs, I reach behind my guitar to shift myself inside my jeans, knowing it’s a lost cause. She gives me a little smirk, and my answering groan is lost to the screams of the crowd.
Mike’s drumsticks start the next song, and I turn my attention back to the pit. Adam has it fired up tonight, and the waves are rolling in a storm that makes my skin hum. Under the searing blue and green lights, my T-shirt is clinging to the sheen of sweat on my skin and my blood is boiling hot. My bass pours through Mayhem’s massive speakers, and my entire body bounces with the beat. The girls who aren’t focused on Adam or Shawn scream lyrics at me, reaching with braceleted arms and desperate fingers. A pair of panties flies in my direction, but I take a step back to let them fall to the stage. I turn a smile on Dee, who, with her arms crossed and a grin on her face, shakes her head at me.
I turn back toward the crowd, knocked completely off my game. My fingers play on auto even though what I’m really thinking about is why the hell Dee just stood there shaking her head instead of tossing her panties at me. For the past couple weeks, we’ve played a little game: if I catch her panties when she throws them, I get a reward. If I don’t, she gets one. Either way, I’m the luckiest fucking guy I know. Half the time, I’ve let them fall at my feet just so I have an excuse to taste her.
“Why didn’t you throw your panties onstage?” I ask in her ear as soon as our first “last song” ends. The crowd is chanting for “one more song” over and over again, but the guys are busy chugging down water and taking a much needed break from the lights. Dee tugs on my damp sleeve so she can answer in my ear.
“I’m not wearing any,” she says, and my hand instantly slides over the curve of her ass. No panty lines. Christ. Unable to keep my lips off her any longer, I kiss the salt on the curve her neck and begin dipping my fingers under the waistband of her skirt to check for the strap of a thong or a g-string in case she’s only teasing.
“Last song, man,” Shawn says, smacking me on the shoulder before taking the stage.
I press my mouth back against Dee’s ear, intending to warn her about all the things I’m going to do to her as soon as the set is over. But my brain is too fucking fried to even know what I’m going to do, so instead I curl my tongue behind her earlobe and nip at the soft skin. Her curled fingers tighten around my bicep, and a smirk touches my lips. I walk away from her and don’t look back.
When the song is over, I’m the first one off the stage. I unstrap my guitar from my neck, prop it against the first surface I find, and grab Dee’s hand. She makes a little noise and nearly trips behind me in those sexy stiletto heels she’s wearing, but she catches her footing and manages to fall into a quick step beside me. Next month, I’ll be leaving for a month-long tour to promote the album the band recorded this past week, but until then, I’m all hers.
“Where are we going?” she asks, but the fact that she’s following me instead of bitching me out for nearly tugging her off her feet tells me she already knows.
“Anywhere.” I push open the first door I find, relieved when it’s an empty office. I tow Dee inside, lock the knob behind us, and pin her against the heavy wooden door. My lips cover hers, and my hand sneaks under her skirt to see if she was telling the truth about not wearing any panties.
My calloused fingers brush over silky smooth skin, and when I find her bare little button and press, the gasp that tears from her lips makes me throb inside my jeans. Her hands are fumbling with my zipper a second later, and then I’m lifting her against the door and squeezing between her thighs. Her fingers scratch over the back of my T-shirt as I sink inside her, and I kiss the moan that sounds from her lips.
“I love you,” I say between thrusts. There was a time when the words made her stiffen, made her pull away from me. Now, she turns into putty in my hands. “I fucking love you,” I say again, and she melts against my skin.
She’s moaning, her ankles crossed tight behind my legs when someone jiggles the doorknob.
Her eyes get wide, and I stop moving for only a second. “Just a minute.”
“This is my fucking office!” the person outside yells.
I move Dee to another wall and go back to fucking the hell out of her. “Be. Right. Out!”
I can see the anxiety and desire warring in her eyes, but when I kiss her, the battle is easily won.
The person outside doesn’t stop jiggling or knocking, and I thrust into Dee until her moans in my ear are all I hear. When I finish giving her all I’ve got, my forehead resting heavily on her shoulder, she taps her fingers against my hands and I lower her feet back to the ground. She cleans up with some tissues from the desk, tosses them in a wastebasket, and takes my hand. I give the owner of Mayhem an exhausted, apologetic smile as we leave his office, and he mutters something about me being an asshole as we pass.
“You’re going to get in trouble one of these days,” Dee warns.
“Worth it,” I counter, and her giggle makes it that much more true.
On the bus, she and Peach talk about Dee starting fashion school next week, and even though Dee just blushes and tells me to shut up, I make sure to tell everyone how proud I am of her. She applied, she got in, and I know she’s going to be amazing. The shirts are great, but her designs are what she’s passionate about, and if she can learn to see in herself what everyone else sees in her, there will be nothing to hold her back.
At home, I give her a much more satisfying version of what happened in the office, and afterward, she lies snuggled against my side with her purple fingernail tracing invisible patterns on my chest. I watch her, breathing slow so I don’t bring her back from wherever she is. She’s so damn gorgeous, especially in moments when she’s lost in thought and showing me she loves me without even realizing that’s what she’s doing.
Her almond eyes slowly lift to catch mine staring, and I kiss the top of her head. She lets out a contented sigh and snuggles closer against me. “Why do you love me?”
With her silky brown hair spilling through my fingers, I tease, “That’d be like me asking why you love ice cream.”
“Because it tastes good,” she argues, and I contain a chuckle.
“You taste good.”
“Oh, you’re such a—”
I cut her off by digging my fingers into her sides, and she laughs hysterically while wiggling out of my reach. When she stops laughing and shoots a glare at me, I plant a surprise kiss on her lips and wrap her back up in my arms. She growls but lets me do it, and I smile because I can’t help it.
“I love you because I can’t not love you,” I say, and her fingers curl around my ribs to hug me close.
The night I almost killed Cody was the night I realized just how much she meant to me—more than any girl ever has or ever will. I don’t think I loved her yet, not like I do now, but it was the start of something, and I couldn’t have stopped it even if I tried. I spent the next few weeks falling—fast and hard, just like she and I do everything. I fell at the festival, at my birthday, during quiet nights at her apartment. I fell every time she smiled at me, every time she let me hold her.
“Do you think we’ll last?” she asks, her words a quiet whisper floating across my chest.
I keep her close, not answering because I don’t know. Loving Dee is like loving fire. The night I first told her I loved her, when she told me to go home, it broke my heart in a way that it had never been broken before. I ended up drinking myself sick with my mom, toasting the girl who burned me and hating everyone who wasn’t as miserable as I was. Then Dee showed up, giving me hope and taking it away again, and I drove back to town that day vowing to forget her.
“Do you?” I counter. I don’t know if we’ll last—I only know that I hope so. The more time passed after what happened between us in the roped-off bathroom at Mayhem, the more girls I used to try to forget her face, but every night, I found myself drawing her with the pencils she gave me for my birthday. There was no forgetting her, and it took her chucking a poster tube at my head and screaming that she loved me at the top of her lungs to make me realize I’d never want to. Things between us will probably never be easy, but the best things never are. What matters is that every day, I promise to love her forever, and every day, she promises it back.
“I hope so,” she says, and I smile when she echoes my thoughts.
Brushing her silky hair through my fingers, I say, “Me too.”
We lie like that until there’s nothing between us but her heartbeat and my heartbeat and a future we both want—until I quietly say, “I wished for this.” When Dee lifts her gaze to mine, I explain, “On my birthday. When you had me blow out the candles, this is what I wished for.”
“You wished for me?” she asks, and I give her a smile.
That night, with her face illuminated behind soft flames, I wished for the only thing I’d ever really wanted. I wished to be happy.
“Yeah,” I say, lifting her fingers to my lips and planting a soft kiss against her palm. “I wished for you.”
The End