Authors: Rachael Wade
I swallow my words and drown in the kiss, resting my good palm on the sidewalk to move in and accept the affection. I’m rooted to the ground; the city is a blur around us. Mira’s hair blows softly at her cheek as people walk by, and the blaring car horns and revving engines blend together faintly in the distance. All I feel is this girl’s mouth on mine; all I taste is her sincerity. She opens her eyes and her lips drift from mine. I don’t want them to leave, but I want to look at her. I want to listen to her.
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.
“What are you sorry for?”
She lifts a hand and runs it along my jaw, over my facial hair. The pad of her thumb makes contact with my bottom lip. “It’s been a while since anyone’s noticed me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Men. Since men have paid any attention.”
“Garrett pays plenty of attention to you.” Well, shit. So much for being subtle.
Her eyes widen a little and she smirks, glancing down at her busted knee. “That’s different.”
“I don’t see how. He’s a man, and he wants you. I think he’s made that pretty clear. So have I, yeah?”
“Garrett doesn’t really see me. I’m a project. A distraction. Something for him to focus on while he heals from the last break-up. The moment I actually give myself to him is the moment he’ll wake up and realize it’s not me he wants, after all.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I’m never the one. I’m the one on the side. The dirty, little secret. The blind one.” Intensity sheathes her face and churns in her eyes. “But I’m not blind anymore. Garrett thinks I am, but I’m not.”
“What happened to you, Mira? Tell me.” I deliver a shot of equal intensity, unwilling and incapable of breaking eye contact.
“Come on.” She breaks it for me and stands, adjusting her dress as she steadies herself. “We’re going to be late.” She lends me a hand and I stand and join her. We pick up our bikes and quietly resume our ride, pedaling a few more blocks until we reach Capitol Hill. We bike down Olive Way in silence, pausing when we reach a dive bar on the edge of the next block. There’s a line forming outside the door, and excited chatter floats all around us.
“I should’ve known the groupie was taking me to one of her concerts.” I park my bike and wait for her to park hers next to mine. She locks them up and leads me to the side entrance, down a tiny alleyway.
“This band is going to blow up. Trust me, you’ll be thanking me in six months. Consider yourself lucky that you’re getting the chance to see them here, before we lose them to the Mainstream Gods forever.”
“Oh my God.”
“What?” She steps in front of a rusty old door and pounds her fist on it, waiting.
“You really were that kid in high school, weren’t you?”
“Let me guess. You were the kid who went sailing on your yacht and listened to Green Day.”
“What’s wrong with Green Day?”
“I was wrong. We can’t be friends.” Her head rolls back and she smacks her arms on her thighs.
“Whoa, whoa. Janet Jackson and Timbaland are sitting cozy in that stack of CDs in your bedroom, thank you very much.”
“I’m nostalgic.”
“Well, I’m nostalgic about Green Day.”
“No. You just have terrible taste.”
“And you’re just a stereotypical, pretentious Capitol Hill music snob.” I step forward, bringing my forehead to hers. She backs up and I corner her, breathing down on her pale skin, daring her to kiss me again. Okay, more like begging. This girl seriously turns me on.
It’s a problem.
I level her with wild eyes. “You better bring me inside before I fuck you right where you stand. Don’t think I won’t.”
She bites her lip as she glares up at me, stifling a laugh. Her voice is timid. “I kind of like the sound of that.”
“Yeah?” My hands can no longer stay to themselves. This girl is a conundrum. Shy and bold at the same time. Her innocence sends me flying. I want to taste her, want to be inside of her so goddamn badly. “I can make good on that, if you want.” My hand flies up, palm to the wall behind her, ready to go.
She presses her fingers into my torso, letting them trail down, teasing the space just above my belt. “I want. But we can’t miss the show.”
The rusty door unlatches from the other side. Voices rustle as it opens, greeting us and welcoming us inside. “Look who it is! Our little Mira Pie!” A tall, pale geeky guy with glasses open his arms and ushers us forward. “And…friend?”
“Hey, Carter! This is Grant.” She smiles up at him and slaps my shoulder, pushing me off her. I reluctantly back up and let her say hello to her friends. Another crazy musician hops out from the shadows, stealing Carter’s glasses. He places them on the bridge of his nose and bows before us. Some weird, Cockney accent rolls off his tongue. It’s a really, really
bad
faux
accent. God help this dude if he ever actually visits England. They’ll hang him.
“Bloody hell, what do we have here, ol’ chap? Mira and….friend?” He wiggles his eyebrows as he looks at me, then Mira. Carter snatches his glasses back and rolls his eyes.
“Dean,” Mira says sweetly, “this is Grant. I want you to treat him like you treat me. No judging his musical tastes, got it? Not in his presence, anyway.” She winks and nudges my ribcage. “Only I get to do that. Grant, meet Carter and Dean. Also known as The Hellions. They’re opening for Wolf Alice tonight.”
“Wolf what?” I blink.
“Wolf Alice. The headliner. The band that is about to take the world by storm.”
“You look confused,” Carter says, reaching out to pat my arm. “Don’t worry. Just roll with it. Mira knows what she’s talking about.”
“Indeed!” Dean adds, pointing a finger in the air. “The Hellions are not worthy to be playing with such royalty. See for yourself.” He waves his arms out and steps aside, gesturing for us to come in. Mira leans up to peck both him and Carter on the cheek as she slips past them, towing me by the hand behind her. Fire stirs in my chest as I watch the exchange. I exhale and get myself in check. She is not my girl. She is just a hotel receptionist. Just another chick I want to fuck.
“Thanks, guys,” she squeals, pulling me farther into the hall. The moment we’re fully inside, everything is louder. Evidence of weed, incense, and beer permeate the air. You can get a contact high off this shit. I cough and stay close to Mira, right on her heels, letting her guide me through the throng of people backstage. Other groupie types hang around the musicians, engaging in lively discussion while passing cigarettes back and forth. Mira is right at home in her element, saying hello to everyone she passes, greeting them by name. They kiss her, hug her, squeeze her, and occasionally pat her playfully on the ass. She laughs and returns the gesture, grabbing a guitarist’s hat as she sails by him. He shrugs and lets her prop it on her head.
The excitement backstage is nothing compared to the excitement breeding in the front of house. As Mira takes me through a side door to enter the main floor area, I’m nearly blown back by rowdy fans eagerly lining up against the stage. They slowly fill the space, shuffling in from the main entrance in steady droves.
“You doing okay there, Partner?” Mira asks, raising her voice over the noise.
“How many people can fit in this tiny space?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Should I get us something to drink?”
She turns around, squishing her body up against mine to let a group of people pass by us. “If you’re brave enough to fight your way to the bar, sure.”
I look around, scanning over the tops of peoples’ heads to locate the bar. It isn’t hard to find in a small place like this. “I think I can handle it. Where do you wanna stand?”
She laughs. “Stand? We’re not standing out here.”
“At the bar, then?”
“No. We’ll be back there.” She tips her chin back toward the door we just came from. “With the bands. I just wanted to see this. Isn’t it amazing?”
“Of course, we will.” I shake my head. “Yep, amazing. Okay, can I go get us drinks now?”
She tugs on the edge of my blazer. “You don’t really have to try and make it to the bar, silly man. Plenty of booze in the back. Come on.” She takes in the booming space once more, grinning widely with pride, then turns and redirects us to the backstage door. We squeeze on through the clusters of people, and claustrophobia begins to dig its claws into me. It mixes with irritation when I spot Garrett, heading straight for Mira. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t see me at all. And knowing what she’s just told me about him, knowing he’s had her and I haven’t—or has maybe just been closer to having her than me—pisses me the hell off.
“Gina says hey,” Mira says to him as he approaches her, reaching down for a hug. She squeezes my hand tighter and pats him lightly on the back as he bends down.
“Tell her hey, back. She owes me for that thing, from that one time when that other thing happened.”
“Oh, that thing.”
“Yeah. I hated that thing.”
“I’ll let her know. You remember Grant, right?”
He finally looks at me. He finally sees it. Instantly, a challenge is ignited. I’m not one to fight for chicks. I sure as hell am not one to engage in a stupid fucking brawl at some dive bar in Capitol Hill. But the way this dude is spitting daggers at me with that broody fucking gaze of his right now, I just might make an allowance. Or two.
“Oh. Right.” He looks back at Mira. “You talk to Carter and Dean yet?”
“Yeah, they let us in. Haven’t seen them since, though. Think they’re gearing up for their set.”
“Well, when you see them, tell them to come find me. I have that movie they wanted. The BBC knock-off of that weird comedy thing from that one year.”
Mira’s forehead wrinkles. “No, that’s not confusing at all.”
“Nope. Not at all.” Garrett squeezes her shoulder before he slinks off. “Beer’s on the back table, there. Help yourself, Sweetheart.”
“You’re so good to me.”
“I try.”
Mira turns and raises her gaze to meet mine. “You don’t have to like him, but he just offered you free beer.”
“No, he offered
you
free beer.”
“Well, you’re my friend. And guest. So if I get free beer, so do you.” She swings around and walks us over to the table Garrett was talking about. The bottles are going fast. Mira swipes up two and hands me one, popping the cap on mine first before opening hers. She hands the bottle opener off to someone else and takes a healthy swing.
“Do friends kiss friends, too?”
“Some friends. I guess friends like us do.”
“Uh huh.” I take a sip of my own beer and vaguely wonder when—or if—this girl is going to clean up her banged-up knee tonight. I want to clean it up for her. Want to doctor her up just as she did for me the night I cut my hand in her apartment. Carina might have been the one to tie up the loose ends, but Mira was the first responder.
“It’s almost time. The Hellions are starting!” Mira jumps up and down, and I totally see the groupie in her come alive. It was obvious before, but it’s glaringly loud, now. She was probably a closet emo-hipster type since she was twelve. Apparently, she’s never outgrown the damn phase. Here she is, live and in the flesh at twenty-something, wearing those god-awful combat boots, while nursing a Pabst Blue Ribbon in support of her favorite indie bands at some shithole in Capitol Hill. And the lame fedora she swiped off some poor soul backstage? Let’s not forget that one. I’m waiting for her to bust out the suspenders next.
On second thought, Mira in nothing but suspenders, with those boots and that hat doesn’t sound too bad. Sounds like a fucking dream, actually.
The Hellions tumble on stage with a bang, easily winning over the main band’s fans. With their goofy top hats and British bow ties, they’re charming. I’ll give ‘em that. But what I’m really blown away by is the main act’s opening song. As The Hellions exit the stage, there isn’t a long intermission. Wolf Alice is up there in a matter of minutes, jumping right into their latest single, “Moaning Lisa Smile”. All it takes is some fine tuning and a little set-up, and they’re rolling, reeling the crowd in with their grungy vocals and heavy riffs.
I’m sucked in, just like the crowd, as we watch from backstage. Mira positions herself in front of me, pressing her back against my chest, swaying to the music. Her arms come up and she hooks one around my neck, singing along as she intermittently sips her beer. She’s in heaven right now. It’s beyond sexy to see this girl so immersed in her scene, so completely in her own skin. I might not fit into this scene. I might not belong here. But for now, in this moment, I’m a part of the act.
Right now, Mira is the missing puzzle piece, and the world just makes a lot more fucking sense.
“Don’t move,” I say over Mira’s shoulder, as she unlocks her apartment door. “Spider. Near your head.”
“What?” She freezes and starts to squeal. “Get rid of it! Get rid of it!”
“What do you want me to do, kill it?”
“No! I mean, yes! I mean…no. Don’t kill it. Just brush it away, quickly!”
“Brush it away? With what, my bare hands? Are you crazy?”
Her hand is glued to the key as it hangs in the door knob. “I don’t know, use something. Anything!”
It’s then that my laughter breaks. Just like smiling, it feels incredibly unnatural. And if I’m honest, downright scary. But this girl’s face, and the way her voice jumped about ten octaves the moment I mentioned the word
spider
, is hilarious. “I’m only kidding.”
“What?”
“There’s no spider.”
She spins around to face me, her nostrils flaring and eyes on fire. “How could you do that? Why would you do that?”
I keep laughing. She smacks my chest.
“You’re suck a prick!”
“You’re inviting this prick inside, so…I can’t be that bad.”
“Forget it. I changed my mind.” She pivots and pops the door open, stepping inside.
“What’re you gonna do, make me ride my bike home?”
“It’s not your bike. Get a cab.” She shuts the door in my face and I wait, staring patiently at the peeling ivory paint. Seconds tick by. I can hear her storming around like an angry bear, cabinets closing, keys dropping, feet padding across the floor. Until finally, the knob jiggles and she peeks out, slowly pulling the door open. “Say you’re sorry.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re lying.”
“I am.”
Her nostrils flare again, but she can’t suppress the smile that’s creeping onto her lips. She yanks the door open fully and steps back, folding her arms. “I’m going to take a shower. Help yourself to water. It’s all I have.”
“
Mmmm
water. Yum.”
“Stay away from the carrots. And my knives.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
She disappears into the bathroom and I’m left alone to twiddle my thumbs. I pour some water and scan her CD collection again, picking up various albums to pull out and study the art work. I remember these days. When the release of a physical album was the most exciting thing happening in the music world, next to live shows. When flipping through the insert and reading the lyrics was your prize for paying to purchase the actual disc. The covers I design nowadays are still important. They’re still crucial to the representation of the artists’ musical creation. But now their visibility is so fleeting. They flash on a screen as you scroll for new music. They’re there, on your iPod or phone or whatever the hell you use as a medium, but they’re not really there.
And that’s just sad.
I move to the little kitchen for a glass of water. Mail is piled up on one end of the counter. Bills, from the looks of it. All of them unopened. She’s not kidding. She must really be hurting. I lift one of the envelopes from the stack and eye it before chucking it back down. She could do so much better than this damn hotel. Not that it isn’t a nice place to work. It’s a respectable job, and she seems to enjoy the work. But the pay for all they expect her to do?
It’s downright insulting.
Then again, that’s the corporate machine. It’s how the wheels turn. It’s why if I ever had to give up what I do, I’d probably snap and pull a Chris McCandless. Burn all my money and take off for Alaska. Society can be damn depressing sometimes. When life is so short, so fragile, why do we waste one second of it doing anything other than what we want to do? It’s completely senseless. There’s no joy in that. No freedom. Only chains. And haven’t we been fighting various forms of slavery for decades, now? What about this kind? I think it deserves some damn attention.
I gulp down the last of my water and set the glass in the sink, stirring myself from my thoughts. All they do is trigger memories. Remind me just how urgent life really is. We can’t ever really slow down. There’s no such thing. Because if we slow down, we miss something. We miss all kinds of things. Isn’t that the scariest thing about life, in the very end? Not what we regret or the mistakes we’ve made, but the harsh realization that stares us in the face when we look at all the things we haven’t done. The mistakes we never even had the chance to make, because we never had the experience.
Time is of the essence. Experience is everything.
My hand throbs, alerting me to its tenderness. It’s still sore. I need to go easy on it. I release the water glass, leaving it in the sink. Time to let go and chill out. I step away from the sink, turning to find Mira standing there in the bathroom doorway. Her hair is wet but combed, and holy fuck, she’s wearing lace. White lace. And this isn’t the granny kind. It’s classic and sensual, accentuating every curve of her body. It’s a short little nightgown dress thing that hits at the top of her thighs, revealing every delectable inch of her legs. Her tits are playing peek-a-boo, but still sheathed in modest display. She stands there, playing nervously with the hem, tugging on the lace edge.
“What’s this?” I ask quietly. I don’t take my eyes off her.
“What does it look like?” Maybe I’m imagining things, but I could have sworn I heard her stutter slightly. She’s trying damn hard to hold my gaze, making a real effort, but as the seconds pass, she seems to lose her backbone. Her eyes drop to her feet and she continues to fiddle with the hem of the nightgown. Dress. Torture device.
Whatever the fuck she’s wearing.
“You’re…wow.”
“Do you like it?” She rolls her ankle a little and runs her hand up her arm to her shoulder in a subtle attempt to cover herself. She just thinks it’s subtle. It’s damn obvious. But I won’t say anything. I’m thinking through every move before I make it, because this moment is crucial. I don’t want to scare her off. Not when she’s offering herself to me like this.
I suck in some air, inhaling sharply through my teeth. Then I move toward her, deliberately but with an easy stride, as if I need to approach a frightened animal. “That would be an understatement. You’re gorgeous, Mira.” Her shoulders visibly tense as I close in on her, bringing my hand up to gently graze one of the white straps along her shoulder. “Do you want me to touch you?”
“Please.” Her lashes sweep down, then back up. “I don’t want you to stop this time.”
I align my feet with hers and lightly grip her shoulders. Something shimmers in her dark irises, and at first it sets me on edge. Terrifies me. There’s weight in this—a responsibility I really don’t want. But in that flicker, beneath all she’s saying with those eyes, I see the pain. She’s putting all of it on the line. She knows I can hurt her. The second this is over, I can dispose of her, just as I’ve done all the women who came before her. I have the power here, and she knows it.
Yet I’m the one who feels zero control.
Her mouth inches up slowly, reaching for mine, and I beat her to it, dipping down to make contact first. My thumb slips underneath the strap of her nightgown and trails along her collarbone, moving north to graze the slope of her neck. My tongue slips into her mouth and she ignites, reaching on her tip-toes to wrap her arms around my neck. Her body fits against mine, curling into me, seeking every part of me out. She touches my chest, the scruff of my neck, my abdomen. Everything and anything she can get a hold of, she does.
Her eagerness and desire to please me only makes this whole damn thing harder. Much harder. Because I want to grab her face. I want to tear that pretty white lace from her body and pound her into next Sunday. I’d give just about anything right now to let that rubberband snap. But the way she’s touching me, the way she radiates with pure, undiluted desperation, slows me down. This isn’t all about me or what I want. It’s about this angel in my hands, pressing her body against mine in blatant sacrifice.
“Don’t treat me differently,” she whispers against my mouth, in between heated breaths. “Please don’t do that.”
My lips part, ready with a response. It’s right there, on the tip of my tongue, but I hold it back. The mere thought of what I’m about to say twists my stomach into knots. So I sear her with my gaze instead and grasp her by the back of the neck, jerking her forward, eliciting a little yelp from her throat. My hand brushes roughly down her nightgown and dips into her matching lace panties, seeking out that perfect, soft spot.
Her eyes close with a whimper the second I touch down. My free hand slides down her back to grab her ass, and I push us backward, making an instinctual move for the bed. I continue to stroke her as I lower us both to the mattress. She surrenders completely, letting me guide her body beneath mine. I slide on top of her and nudge her legs open with my knee, dropping my mouth to bite along her collarbone. I sting her skin, bite by bite, running my tongue along the flesh before releasing it from my teeth.
Her hand flies up to grab my shoulder. She’s already so close, so wet. I pause, ceasing the strokes, waiting for her wild eyes to roll up and beg me. Not even a second passes and they do, searching for mine. But she doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask, just tells me everything she needs to say with her hazy gaze.
“You like?” I pump my fingers once, then twice.
“Feel like I’m going to rip in half.”
“You might. But I’ve got you.” I immediately plunge my fingers inside of her, as deeply as I can, and her back bows. Her head snaps against the pillow and her hips begin to move, matching the rhythm of my strokes. I deliver a few more measured pumps, then abruptly withdraw to climb fully on top of her. I lift my thumb to her lips and shove it in her mouth, pressing down on her tongue. “Bite, Mira.” She obeys my command, and I give her a second to release some of the tension before removing my thumb. I’m going to need both hands for this.
I grasp the nightgown’s hem and shove it up her body, exposing her torso and the bottom of her breasts, then peel her panties down her legs. My initial instinct is to flip her over; I dive into my pocket to search for a rubber. But this view is pretty fucking phenomenal. And all I really want is to watch her watch me as I make her come. It’s more than a desire. It’s a flat-out need. So I dismiss my usual routine and keep her there beneath me, tits exposed, pussy ready.
My fingers make quick work of my fly, and I ignore another instinct—the one to drive into her the second my cock is free. I grip myself and press the tip to her clit, then resume the same strokes, replacing my fingers with the real deal. The sudden friction and heat of my dick makes her squirm beneath me. This is the very best kind of torture. I join her on the edge, knowing I won’t last long, either. Not when I finally have this girl in my hands. Not after imagining the way she tastes or what it would feel like to have some control over her body. Now that it’s actually happening, all of my energy bubbles to the surface. It’s overwhelming and demanding, seizing every ounce of my concentration or ability to focus on anything other than this girl, spread out before me. Mira’s skin. Mira’s taste. Mira’s eyes.
Mira everything.
I flick the tip of my cock against her, over and over again, back and forth until she’s coming loudly beneath me. It’s then, as she’s riding the waves of pleasure, that I tear open a rubber and sink inside her. I slide home, delving into pure, hedonistic elation. I roll her onto her side in between thrusts, hiking her knee up and pushing it down into the mattress. Her stomach is pressed flat against the sheets, and her cheek is crushed against the pillow, lashes fluttering as she watches me work her body.
I increase the pressure, pounding harder. “Tell me if I’m hurting you.”
“You’re not.”
“Keep going?” I lick my lips.
“You can do this all night, if you want.” She smiles, and it’s unlike any other grin I’ve seen her wear. This one is woven with freedom. Complete abandonment. She’s fucking glowing. I kiss her neck and cheek, then ready myself, bracing my palm and forearm beside her to give myself traction. I wait until she’s immersed entirely in the sensation and our new position before driving hard. As I pick up the pace, her arms float up above her head and I collect and grip her wrists, pinning them up high, over the top of the pillow.
“
Mmmm
, I definitely want.” I sting her earlobe with my teeth and nestle into the crook of her neck, pressing my forehead against her skin. My fingers slip as I hold her sweaty wrists in place. I take the opportunity to flip her over onto her stomach, pulling out and re-entering her with a bang. She cries out into the pillow as I slam into her, as hard and as deeply as I can. My arms glide over hers, my palms covering her knuckles, and my body molds perfectly against hers. Our shouts ring out, filling the apartment. It’s a mind-numbingly good sound, and I want that shit on record.
I come hard, collapsing against her on one final, heavy breath. Afraid of crushing her, I push myself off her and roll onto my back, waiting for her to follow. She doesn’t move. “Mira?”
“
Mmmm
?”
“Are you dead?”
“Kinda. Sorta.”
I laugh and roll my head toward her, met with her bare back and a messy head of hair. She’s still face down, mouth shoved into the pillow, and her arms are still draped high above her head. “Homicide wasn’t on my list of things to do today.”