Authors: Lyra Byrnes
She could hear the party before it came into view—the sound
of splashing and playful screams. The groupies had found the Alamo Suites. Even
at one in the morning they tracked the band home and converged on the pool
area, some in bra and panties, some in panties, some in tiny wet dresses or
nothing at all. Kraxis sat naked on the pool’s edge, a beer in each fist. Again
Varian was flanked by girls, hunched over a glass-topped café table with a
straw in his hand. A couple of the more hopeful or deluded ones watched as Jet
manned a blender, holding up a lime and explaining something with mock
severity.
It looked like fun and a great addition to her second post
but she had an appointment to keep.
“It seems we’re always meeting in anonymous rooms,” she
quipped as she entered the suite. It was as spare, cool and Southwestern as her
own but twice as large.
Bram had a shirt on for once, a black muscle tank. Not a
good sign. “Hello.”
Josie reddened. “Sorry, hello.”
“Come in and take a glass.”
“I don’t feel like peppermint tea tonight.”
He splashed brown liquid into two highball glasses, one
already sticky with residue. “Neither do I.” He settled on the bed and gave her
a piercing look, eyebrows raised. She sat next to him, almost giggling to
herself.
We’re like an old married couple watching TV side by side
in bed,
she thought.
No, yikes. Don’t say “married”. Don’t even think
it. Yum, whiskey. Concentrate on yummy whiskey.
“That was an awesome show,” she ventured.
“We have to work on your manners, Josie.”
“You’re kind of a stickler. I’m more California casual, I
guess.”
“Around me, you’re submissive formal.”
“I don’t even know what that means. And I’m not… I’m not
submissive.”
“You are. Or are you going to tell me that you come like
that, howling and shaking, on the regular? I should spank you again or do much
worse for lying to me.”
Spank me again,
she thought wildly.
Door number
one!
“What’s worse?”
He shrugged. “Things I carry in my suitcase, for one. A
couple of venues have private backstage areas, very well supplied. You’d be
surprised to hear some of the bands that use them. Magicians too. They’re a
funny lot.”
“Like…” She licked her lips and tasted the whiskey on them. “Like
dungeons?”
“Something like that. Equipment for specialized tastes.”
She digested this. So Bram went from city to city lashing
girls with his whip, making them feed on his cock, chaining them to shabby
backstage walls or bending them over one of those weird sex chairs and god
knows what else. Against her will the thought of it excited her. Arousal
coursed through her veins, stronger than jealousy.
“That’s what you like.”
“Josie.” He sounded exhausted. “What I like is to be in
control, to make women feel what I want them to feel, and when I want them to
feel it. All that clanking stuff, the chains, the ropes, the clamps, the
crosses—”
“Crosses?”
“It’s a means to an end. There are other ways to get there.
Virtually any mundane object will do, if you keep a sharp eye out.”
Josie regarded her heavy-bottomed glass. He could shatter it
and cut her. Would she like that? She decided no.
“Here.” He pulled off her glasses and set them on the
nightstand.
“Bram, I can’t see!”
“This,” he held up a safety pin close to her face, “is a
common pin, yeah?”
“Fair enough. That is a pin.” Crap, the room was fuzzy. Even
Bram was fuzzy and she really, really enjoyed looking at him.
“Now close your eyes.” She obeyed as he took one bare arm.
Josie felt a light stroke. “Does this hurt?”
“Of course not. Helps that I can’t see the pointy part.”
She heard a chuckle. “Smart girl. Closing off a sense or two
heightens the others. Now, what does this feel like?”
A scratch, but a gentle one, not nearly as bad dragging a
ragged fingernail across the skin.
“You’re scratching me with the point.”
“Don’t describe, love.
Feel
.”
“Um, okay, it’s not bad. Scratchy but not painful.”
“And now?”
“Well that’s…that’s gonna leave a mark. Still, it doesn’t
hurt-hurt.”
“Look at me.” He wore a serious expression, ice pick-blue
eyes boring into her small gray ones. “It’s all sensation, Josie, a spectrum.
But it’s not a straight line from great pleasure to outright pain. More like a
circle. There’s an area where they meet, the realm of heightened sensation
where one is indistinguishable from the other. That realm is my playroom, not
those fusty dungeons.”
She pawed around for her glasses and fixed them on. The back
of her forearm sported a long, thin red line. “I think I see.”
His grin was predatory, the inner panther revealing itself. “Though
those dungeons have their own charms. Just another way to get there.”
“I’m good with the pin for now.”
“I know you are. I like that you’re honest with me. Most
girls are so desperate to fuck Bram Hunter they’d say and do anything. But
there’s nothing worse than an amateur with no understanding of the rules.”
“So what are the rules?”
He lit a cigarette. “Well, since you’re new at this and I
don’t know how far I can push you, you’re going to need a safeword.”
Josie made a face and reached for the bottle. “I’ve heard
about those. ‘Stop’ or ‘no’ or whatever.”
“Doll, you are more innocent than Bambi. Something neutral
that can’t be misconstrued. Like ‘yardage’ or ‘fishhook’.”
“What’s wrong with ‘stop’?” The whiskey was going to her
head but she took another sip, enjoying the warmth in her belly.
“Because there is another thing I like, more than safety
pins and spankings. Something I saw in you when you showed up at my door by
mistake. You’re feisty, Josie. You have a smart mouth and your brain’s not far
behind. You’re a strong girl, and a strong submissive is a rare breed.”
“You want a girl who fights back? Isn’t that rape? There’s a
fucking safeword for you.”
He ran a hand over her breasts as if his fingers could taste
her flesh. “Far from it, if it’s entirely consensual and part of the game. I
want a woman who stands up to me but only to a point, so when I try to take
you, it’s safe to fight back, scratch and claw, call me names. That heightens
the sensations as well.”
“On the spectrum of anger but not actual anger.”
“Call it passion. Anger is a passion too, but it doesn’t
come into play.”
“Why would any girl fight back against you?” she asked,
immediately regretting giving voice to her thoughts.
But Bram did not dismiss her or even smile. He palmed her
nipple firmly. “We’re talking about you, and you can if you like, right? But
when we fight, Josie, be prepared to lose.”
Her pussy flooded. Oh god, screaming at Bram Hunter,
pretending to reject him, her writhing subsiding as he wrestled her down and
shoved his huge cock inside…
“That sounds unbelievably hot,” she admitted, feeling her
cheeks flush. “But not very submissive.”
“You’d be surprised. And that’s the second lesson. I won’t
be pushing you around to make you feel small. Demanding your body, your
attention, your obedience is an expression of my desire for you. I might be
controlling the experience but you’re the one in control of
this
.”
He placed her hand on his cock, a hard ridge under the
leather.
“Because you want me so bad?” she teased.
“I do. But more importantly, because I trust you and that’s
a rare thing for Bram Hunter.”
To her dismay he sprang up from the bed and began to rummage
in her messenger bag.
“I don’t think I have anything in there you can use to, you
know, spectrum.”
He threw a notebook and pencil on the bed then brought the
tape recorder over and plugged it in. “You’re about to get your second
interview with the lead singer of Domination. How does that feel?”
“Not as good as your cock did a minute ago,” she said.
“Keep that up and I’ll be too busy fucking you sideways to
tell the world about the next recording. Now, shall we get started?”
“Are we really going to do an interview?”
He lit another cigarette and shook out the match. “Yeah,
first. And after…”
“After?” she asked, hope fluttering from her voice.
He nodded at the television set. “Cartoons.”
She had to give it to Bram—he was great at his job.
Domination changed up the show every night, reordering the set list, fiddling
with the lighting and performing one cover song that paid homage to the city
hosting them. Last night it had been
Remember the Alamo
. If Josie hadn’t
known the Johnny Cash number already she would never have recognized it.
Tonight it was Randy Newman’s
Louisiana
, a mournful tune turned into a
power-dirge, full of menace and melancholy.
For a hot, rebellious rock god, he’s a damn hard worker,
she’d thought, watching him pull a tearful, chubby brunette onstage.
She wanted to spend some time alone, preferably writing the
naughtiest fantasies she had ever dreamed evoked by Bram’s admittance of his
true desires, but Artie wanted “color”, which meant watching the boys get drunk
backstage.
“Backstage is a hellhole. It’s depressing and ugly and
nothing ever happens there,” she’d complained to him countless times.
“I know, kid, but the paying customers want to feel they’re
getting the inside experience. Sex it up.”
If he only knew how much she could “sex up” the story of her
road trip it would make his hair curl but Josie had to buckle down and get
another post to
Rock Star
before they hit the next city. The blog was a
hit, she had learned from an unlikely source while organizing her notes in the
lobby earlier.
“Views in the high five figures. That’s higher than your
print circulation was before it went all pear-shaped,” Varian had pointed out,
looming over her like a specter.
She looked up from her screen. “How do you know that?”
“Oh, I keep an eye out, girlie.” His thin lips approximated
a smile.
Josie did not like him at all. Something about him
was…unhealthy. Sick in the soul.
But he wasn’t looming over her now. Varian was cramped in a
corner of the putty-colored room, pale and shivering. She hoped there wasn’t
some kind of flu going around.
“I thought Texas was hot,” Kraxis complained, jiggling the
girl on his lap as if she were a baby. She giggled like one. “I’m sweating like
a Tory in a nancy pub.”
“Watch your step, Krax,” Jet said without menace. “And that
was a dry heat. What’s your name, lovely?”
A blonde helping herself to a shot of tequila smiled. “Candi.”
“Didn’t ask what ye taste like!” roared Kraxis.
Jet seemed more interested in his drink than the girls and,
to be fair to the girls, they didn’t seem all that interested in the scene.
Certainly it was less exciting without Bram and Josie knew he had a private
dressing room. Unless you were the one with a girl on your lap it was as boring
as a boardroom meeting.
Something Bucky had said at last night’s concert had rung a
bell and now she remembered it. The band meeting! As she had boarded the bus in
Austin he’d informed her with characteristic disapproval that he’d sent her the
itinerary after the meeting. Perhaps someone had hung around and distracted
Bucky, changed the address on his phone. It was worth asking before Jet got too
drunk to answer.
“Hallo, ducky,” he said with a smile. “How you getting on?”
“Pretty well, thanks. I have a question.”
“Ooh, we finally going to do that interview? I have lashes
of lovely gossip. Well, I don’t, but I’d make some up.”
Josie laughed. “Not yet but I promise soon. No, I was
wondering about the band meeting yesterday. What time did it break up?”
“One-ish, I’m sure. Same as all the others—noon to one pip
emma if we haven’t made a night of it.”
“You mean that was—”
“A quiet evening at home for this lot, yeah.” He grinned
like a wicked angel. “Wait ’til you see us in action.”
“Christ almighty. Anyway, did one of you hang around
afterward?”
“Hang around?” Jet’s eyes lit up. “Right you are! Miss V
wasn’t too spry about heading to the door, as I recall. Still haunting the
place when I gathered up my slate and satchel.”
“Interesting. Thank you, and I owe you a turn in the
spotlight.”
“Just be sure you get my good side.”
Interesting indeed. So Varian was keeping a sharp eye out.
So would she.
Bucky put his head in the door. “Loading in fifteen, ladies
and gents,” he said then glanced at the groupies. “Not you ladies.”
“What?” cried Josie. “We have two days before the next show.”
He pulled her aside. “And a four-hour commute even if we
crawl. Do you really want to be stuck in this backwater?” He shuddered. “The
boys want to spend their downtime in New Orleans.”
So did she. She’d never been to New Orleans, although she’d
heard plenty about it—mostly involving beads, boobs and beer. She stuffed her
laptop away and shouldered her bag.
Negotiating the metal steps down to the arena exit was
tricky enough without someone pushing by. A tall brunette in sky-high heels
shoved by her on the way up, giving Josie a filthy look.
“Do you mind?” she sneered. “I’m on a tight schedule.”
And in a tight dress, Josie noticed. And going the wrong
direction if we leave in fifteen minutes.
Bram. He needed a quickie after the show while his adrenaline
was still pumping.
Shit, shit, shit.
She found a grotty bathroom and took some deep breaths. No
wonder he hadn’t joined the others backstage—not because he didn’t know she was
with them but because he did. Bucky had probably already arranged to have a
girl sent to him after every show, one who knew when to kneel and how Bram
liked his cock sucked. Josie being around didn’t change a damn thing. She would
have to find the strength to get on the bus and act normal when she saw him.
That proved harder than she had anticipated. Josie burrowed
into her seat, hugging her bag to her chest. She knew she was sulking like a
teenager but couldn’t stop.
After what felt like an eternity Bram stepped into the
aisle, hanging for a moment with both hands on the bar above his head, his
glorious chest wide as an eagle’s wingspan. He threw Josie a wink, which she
studiedly ignored, and strode past her.
“Ye look exhausted, mate,” Kraxis called.
“No rest for the wicked.” Bram flopped down on his customary
long backseat, one arm flung over his eyes.
Josie couldn’t stand it anymore. All that talk about trust
and safewords and what he really wanted—it was just talk. He had probably given
the same speech to the brunette in the tiny dress. Given her hope and then
ripped it away. Josie strode over to him, her face flushed.
“I know what you’re up to,” she spat.
Bram didn’t move. “Good show. Writers are trained to be
observant.”
“I saw that girl.”
“Oh, that. Yeah, I was in dire need.”
“I’ll just bet!”
She did her best to stage whisper but all eyes turned to
her.
Kraxis called out, “Girls, girls! Ye’re both pretty.”
Bram sat up. “Are we having a row, Josie?” he asked in a
low, controlled voice that made her blood run cold. “I don’t argue with
females.”
“Best not if ye want to keep yer balls!” Kraxis let out a
booming laugh.
“Damnedest woman. Listen to me, love. Are you aware that I’m
working?”
“Work!” she snorted.
“Yes. You think it’s all about the girls and the booze and
thrashing about onstage? I work like any other man.”
She looked at his leather pants and shirtless chest, the
beer-can graveyard littering the aisle.
“Nice cubicle.”
“So the lighting is a bit better. Touring is
boring
.
It’s bus rides and hotel rooms, radio appearances, answering the same questions
infinity times. And while I’m cruising on the success of the last record, my
head’s moved on to the next. Your man in the cubicle has one boss to please—I
have thousands. I need stimulation to reset the motor.”
“You needed a visit from the takeout submissive menu.”
He shook his head. “A notebook. I sent out for a fresh
supply before Bucky announced we were loading up.”
“So that girl wasn’t…”
“I was writing, love. Sorry to disappoint.”
He had been writing and run out of materials. That had
happened to her. But she wasn’t able to snap her fingers and have fresh
supplies hand-delivered and if she could, the store certainly wouldn’t send its
hottest employee.
Scratch that—the hottest employee wouldn’t have checked out
who was staying at the hotel first and volunteered to go.
“I feel stupid.”
“You should,” he said. “Now shall we get on with the work?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Be professional and not a dreamy little
lovesick girl, Josie. You’re on the clock.
She grabbed her materials. “We
were talking about the new album.”
So far Bram had answered questions about his influences and
the band’s early days playing in garages and beer-sticky clubs but offered no
details about the songs on Domination’s next album.
“You said you expect it to chart well. Don’t you believe
that of all your recordings?”
“Metal doesn’t reach to top of the pops unless there’s some
naff compromise like an orchestra or some pop star guesting,” he said.
“Don’t you want to write hits?” she asked.
“For what? The dosh? I don’t need a castle in Ireland with
fourteen bogs and a drafty throne room. I have one but that’s just part of the
show. Nah, it keeps us pure, not worrying about how many spotty youths download
our work. Do what you do with enough passion and the punters respond.”
“So what’s the title of this one?” She preferred to ask
direct questions with an assumption she was entitled to an answer. Rock stars
could be secretive about releasing such information but they occasionally fell
for such a trick.
Bram answered without hesitation. “
Enslaved
,” he said
with a wolfish grin. “That should get the spotty youth in line.”
Enslaved
. Just hearing the word made her tingle. “What’s
it about? Is there a theme? What’s the first single?”
“Still working on it,” he said. “Such an eager little
beaver. Don’t you understand I am an
artiste
?”
“Excuse me, Mozart.”
“Naughty girl. I’ll give you a retort to that little jibe
that will sting for a day.”
Oh yes, please.
He favored her with a wicked smile. “Better get your rest
tonight, love. We have work to do tomorrow.”