Saving Landon Part 30

The ba.s.sist, had already sent his piece of a.s.s away for the night. Lying in bed with a book, Terence gave me a brief nod as I pa.s.sed by in the hall.

Our ba.s.sist didn't talk much.

He was a thoughtful guy. Reserved.

It made him someone easy for me to work with.

Settling down in bed, I curled my fingers behind my head and waited for sleep to rear its ugly head. Unfortunately, it was a bit busy that night.

Instead, I wound up thinking about Angel.

Those sweet hips of hers.

That nice rack.

Her gorgeous hair.

Those beautiful eyes...

As I'd done so many times in the last few weeks, I rubbed one out to help myself sleep. It was dispa.s.sionate, unfeeling, just a burst of chemicals in my head to subdue my thoughts.

My self-loathing.

My lack of emotion.

My private little cl.u.s.terf.u.c.k of imbalances.

I felt filthy. Disgusting. The groupies, the fame, the attention, none of it f.u.c.king mattered. But when I saw the way that girl was looking at me...I forgot, briefly.

Forgot how screwed up I was inside.

Huh. Imagine that.

10.

Angel The driver, a friendly backup tech for the bad, pulled behind the private area behind the main venue. We came to a stop beside a group of other private vehicles. On the other side of a tall wall, I could barely make out the roofs of what were likely the band buses.

"By the way, you're gonna need this to hang around backstage," the tech told me.

He tossed me a special, tagged lanyard, which I quickly studied before promptly sliding it into place around my neck.

VIP Platinum Trent Masters and the Whiplash, Guest A tall, beefy stagehand peered through the door after we knocked. Checking my tag, he nodded promptly and let us through. With him in the lead, we navigated a few unorganized corridors and turns, eventually winding up close to the stage itself.

"This is the VIP area," he pointed out. "Here's where the after-party usually goes down. Band buses are over that way, just outside."

It was a reasonably sized dark room, with several other areas behind curtains or separated out from the main floor. Some couches, chairs, and a.s.sorted seating were placed seemingly without rhyme or reason. A large bar stood proud along the main wall, with a few servers scurrying around and checking on the details.

"This is where Trent and company decompress after a show," the tech told me. "Along with the other bands, of course."

"Other bands?"

I'd actually forgotten all about that.

The tech looked at me funnily. "Yeah, the other performers. Whiplash is one of seven bands playing this venue. There're one or two smaller outfits, but most of them are household names. Couple of veterans from the Eighties..."

While he droned on, I glanced around. It was easy to imagine several dozen rockers, splitting into their own little cliques, and surrounded by VIPs and groupies.

I wondered where Trent sat.

"...And if you'll follow me," the stagehand continued impatiently, "I'd like to take you to where you'll be situated for the concert."

"When are the guys playing?" I asked.

"Trent Masters and the Whiplash are the final performers tonight. You'll be present for the entire concert, front to back."

"Oh yeah?"

I hadn't really signed up for all of that, but I guess it made sense to watch the other rockers too...even if I was really only there for his band.

"Right. So, if you'll follow me..."

The tech waved goodbye and ducked out of sight, and I followed the stagehand down to the backstage area.

Well, more accurately, the side stage area.

He left me with a small group of other fans, each featuring the same sort of lanyard but with different colors. Each one seemed to correspond to other bands four for a group called Thunderspear, another called The Scoundrels, and so on.

I'd heard a few of these. The Scoundrels, in particular. They were these rock legends from the late Sixties, which only made it more impressive that Trent and his band were going to be on this stage.

As luck would have it, my arrival was timed to coincide with the opening band.

Not five minutes after I joined the group, the performers came out from the other side of the stage: four guys in their upper twenties, dressed less like powerful rockers and more like surf b.u.ms with surprisingly decent fas.h.i.+on sense.

The crowd went wild, and so did most of the people with me.

The lanky singer approached the mike, flas.h.i.+ng a quick grin of acknowledgement and a thumbs-up our way before addressing the huge venue.

"Good evening, Alabama! We are The DeVitos! How are y'all doing tonight?"

The crowd surged with pleasure.

"Fan-f.u.c.king-tastic! The boys and I were thinking about maybe playing a few ditties for you now, is that alright?"

Cue the same reaction.

"Awesome! Jack, hit it!"

"ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR!"

Guitars began riffing rapidly, each one waiting a few bars to add upon the building melody, while the drums chaotically blasted in the back. The singer was already head banging and hopping around stage, finally jumping back to the mike and bellowing out indecipherable punk lyrics.

I couldn't remember the last time I'd heard music like this.

It sounded insane.

It sounded wild.

It sounded f.u.c.king amazing.

And it was all thanks to Trent.

11.

Trent I'd spent the entire afternoon resting my voice, occasionally poking my head out to watch the musicians before us play. We were usually too busy to enjoy the other performers, but since this was a repeat concert, I could spare some time for each set.

To my pleasure, Angel was standing over with the other backstage guests, higher up in the food chain than even the VIPs in the front.

She looked happy.

No, more than that.

She looked completely f.u.c.king thrilled.

I found myself wanting to walk over to her, to spend some time chatting with her. Maybe I could get her attention or send someone to pull her back here.

Maybe I could seduce her out of those pretty little clothes before the show even started. She sure looked pumped up.

I briefly imagined slamming her up against a wall in the bus, behind a locked door, and taking what was mine. Her nice, round lips would polish off my c.o.c.k while she perched on her knees in front, wors.h.i.+pping me. At the moment of sweet release, I'd drain my heavy b.a.l.l.s down the back of her throat.

Maybe instead, my fingers would clench into the sweet flesh of her a.s.s-cheeks, slamming her down hard on my thick, steely erection. I'd make her yelp with pain but moan with satisfaction, craving every last inch of my rigid c.o.c.k.

I shook my head.

Not yet.

I didn't need the distraction.

Nor did I need the other fans swarming me.

I was supposed to be relaxing, chilling out with the band before our set while they idly strummed and drummed on their practice instruments, not stalking my own guest and undressing her with my eyes from over here.

But G.o.dd.a.m.n, did she look hot.

The clothes she picked were amusing punk threads a tight band s.h.i.+rt, a ratty jumper over it, a miniskirt frayed along the edges, long striped socks, and a that pair of Converse again. It was an interesting ensemble probably improvised at the last second but it demonstrated that she cared enough to try and look the part.

The only way she could look any more punk to me was if she'd dyed her hair green and added a spiked choker.

But this?

I liked this.

I liked it a lot.

My twitching c.o.c.k agreed.

Enough distractions, I thought to myself as I pulled my eyes away from her. Within the moment, I'd slipped back out of sight. Retreating towards the group, I walked in on Waylon and Terence, ribbing each other over their playing.

They loved taking the p.i.s.s at each other.

Dylan, on the other hand, was practicing a few rolls and clashes against a drum kit. He ended each one with a symbol crash, quickly grabbing the edge to silence the ringing sound.

"Hey, how's your little pet doin'?" Waylon sneered, a sly grin on his face. "She alright in the sidelines, yeah?"

"Told you to not call her that," I retorted.

Waylon and Dylan shared a look.

Terence simply shrugged.

"Yeah, well, it's not often that the big guy hands out a free pa.s.s to a nice piece of a.s.s," Waylon smiled, his eyes curious. "It's just nice to see you with your head back in the game."

"How do you figure?"

"Maaan, you have been moping hardcore these last few weeks. Turnin' down 'tang in a dozen cities. Good to have the fearless leader back is all I'm sayin'."

I grunted, taking a step towards him. I wanted to smack that s.h.i.+t-eating grin straight off of his face...but I stopped myself.

Last thing I needed to do?

Smack around my guitarist before a show.

And I owed the fans, anyway. RipFest had been sold out for three months. Sure, the other bands were a major draw too, but I wasn't about to cripple the end-game of the venue lineup because my a.s.shole guitarist was talking s.h.i.+t about my girl.

My girl?

I stepped back outside to clear my head. Where the f.u.c.k did THAT come from? Because that wasn't a possessive thought it was a surprisingly tender one.