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Chapter Text

Burn for me

Midwood, 1997

“Pyro technics?” she sipped her gin and squinted her face up at him, as if that would help against the blaring stereo right above her head. The bar was filled with sweaty leather-clad metallers but here at the counter it was a bit more isolated, but louder.

“Pyrolagnia, T” he said patiently, his barreling voice reverberating down her spine. Despite the baritone, she could only hear the chants of Metallica’s Enter Sandman. Thankfully, the song split in half at the very moment he confessed his fetish to her and she finally caught the word. It still didn’t mean much to her, though.

He was looking at her shyly, his eyes flitting across her face and then back to his beer, and then back to her face and over to the crowded floor again. The urge to make a ridiculous joke, or just get up and leave, was almost overwhelming. Instead, he ran his hands through his hair and shook his leg restlessly on the bar stool.

“Ok big guy, I’m pleased for ya, but you’re gonna have to give me a bit more to go on here”. Noticing his nerves, she extended a hand and squeezed his jean-clad thigh, her red nails contrasting sharply with the black denim. He inhaled a breath and took a huge swig of the beer, draining it. She pulled herself in closer to him, sitting between his spread thighs now. She was perched high up on the bar stool but he was merely leaning against it, his long legs slightly bent at the knee.

He sighed as she snaked her arms around his torso and pressed her cheek against his chest. He leant down and inhaled the scent of her hair. Cinnamon. Coconut. He instantly felt a warmth travel down his belly and to his thighs and moaned, rumbling in his chest. She smirked. “I… I just…. It’s like, fire represents life and death. Like blood. It’s violence. It’s energy. It’s love. It’s death and rebirth…” he swallowed, a click in his throat. “And watching something burn is like… I take its energy. It gives the only thing it has left, to me. It’s… it’s very sexual. Sensual”, his voice dropped down to a whisper, but his mouth was right against her ear and she heard every word this time. She raised her head up to his, watching his blue-hazel eyes carefully. He fixed her with an intense stare, and she forgot to breathe. All the world collapsed into his gaze. He smirked, blinked, and she exhaled the breath she had forgotten about. She licked her lips, wanting to kiss his more than anything in the world.

“Would… would you like to burn something together?” she asked, watching his reaction. A pink hue travelled up his neck and reaching his strong jaw before halting at his cheeks. He cleared his throat, attempting to be nonchalant, but Tara almost slid off the bar stool at the sound, her eyes wide and her legs squeezing closed.

“W… well that would be delicious” he murmured, and she leant up, unable to resist his full cupids bow any longer. He sighed as she sucked on his lower lip and ran her tongue over it. His own hands grasped her hips and he pulled her closer, wanting her on his lap, legs spread over his waist.

“Can I get this dessert to go, please chef?” he growled against her kiss and she giggled.

*********************

Instead of driving back to his apartment, he pulled a right and parks by Pier Four, the concreted dock on the East River. Her face fell but she tried to hide it. She had expected to go straight back to his place and get ruined on the bed again.

He put the car roughly into park and sat back in the seat for a moment, staring ahead at the midnight abyss of the river. She swallowed, suddenly a little on edge.

“You trust me, Tara?” The question came out of nowhere, and she felt a rush of adrenaline make her blood turn to ice. She felt ridiculous at the sudden fright and shook her hair out, attempting to be casual.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she said, blinking back the concern. They had been together a few months and he had shown her nothing but gentle love and shy lust. Everything about his physique screamed strong bullish brute but the little boy stuck inside the ox was anything but that. The question side swiped her, and she wondered for a moment if she’d got him completely wrong.

He tapped his thighs, still staring ahead. “Come with me, if you want to live”, in his best Arnie voice, the ghost of a smile on his lips. He got out the car without looking at her, and she gulped again, feeling at once ridiculous and like this would be her last night on planet earth. She reached for the oversized door on the Grand Prix but he was already on the other side, opening It for her.

The cold wind blew straight into her bones and the shiver that overcame her made her teeth chatter. His eyes were instantly coated with concern and he draped his leather jacket around her, swamping her in his masculine scent and body warmth.

“Come, it’s just over there” he said, leading her down a small flight of steps to a small concrete bunker tucked under the pier. As he guided her to the opening, he explained in an anxious chatter. “My dad used to work the ships at the yard here, before the fuckers gentrified the whole area. I played here growing up. I know this fuggin place like it’s my mother’s back yard”. He ducked his head under the rebar entrance way and made sure she was safe before turning back again. “I once his here from my sisters for six hours. They never found me. I went back home cause I was hungry”.

She could hear the smirk in his voice. The bunker smelt musty but clean, and it was warmer here than outside. It was pitch black though, and she had no idea where to put her feet. Suddenly, a bright blaze of orange illuminated the shelter.

It was bigger than she imagined, obviously a storage area for the old shipyard on this pier. There were old remnants of chairs, crates, and shelves dotted around. Leaves. No evidence of homelessness, which surprised her.

And Peter’s face was lit up as he beamed at her, proud of his hiding spot and excited to show it to her. He turned to the left, and she could see a small fire pit made of breeze blocks, wood, and blackened bricks.

“I… I come here sometimes. When I’m… uhh… when I feel the need.” He was suddenly overtaken by crippling shyness.

She stepped forward and embraced him tightly. The gentleness of this giant man constantly surprised her, and the need to protect him welled up inside her again. “Hey, Pete. Show me what you’ve got” she smiled up at him, his loose and long black hair tickling her cheek.

A small smile pulled at his lips and he whispered, “okay lady”. He stepped back and reached into one of the shelves on the wall, pulling out a wad of paper. He squatted down by the makeshift fireplace and brought the lighter up to the paper.

Slowly, as in a trance, as in ritualistic fashion, he let the flames lap around the edges of the paper gently. His lips parted, saliva coating the bottom one, as the flames danced higher on the edges. He held the pages until the very last second, before the fire bit into his fingers, and he dropped the wad into the fire circle and stood up slowly. The flames caught the rest of the items in the fireplace and became a larger circle. His face was painted in orange and red and shadows, but unmistakable was the growing bulge between his thighs.

She padded over to him, watching him more than the fire, and ran her hand down his torso. He either pretended or actually didn’t feel her there because he didn’t move. He stared into the blaze, unblinking, his hands squeezing together and releasing. She pressed her body against his and let her hand fall to his bulge, and he blinked, seeing and feeling her for the first time. He cleared his throat, and she gasped.

“Uhhh…” he said, embarrassed by his physical reaction.

“Give me some of that” she whispered, taking the lighter from him with her free hand. He stared at her, uncomprehending, and she nodded over to the shelves. He blinked again and reached up, finding some more old pages left by the warehouse. She smiled at him and gave his length a squeeze in her palm before releasing him and taking the paper.

He coughed again and his own hands fell to his expanding crotch, feeling embarrassed but also needing release desperately.

She held the paper between her fingers and set fire to it, moving it around so the flames lapped large at all edges before burning into the centre. He gasped, watching her hands move. She dropped the pages at the last second, and his eyes never left the orange glow. His hands rubbed incessantly at the growing pole buried under his denim. As the flames died down, he realised what he was doing and even in the dim glow of the embers, she could see the blush had travelled all over his face.

“Fuck. I’m sorry… for myself…” he growled, suddenly disgusted and deeply ashamed. He took several steps back, into the shadows, and she had to chase him, her legs so much shorter.

“Listen here, Ratajczyk. You don’t get to bring me all the way down here into the bowels of Red Hook and not offer me some dessert. You promised” she smirked, trapping him against the cold concrete wall and pushing her body against his.

He looked down at her passively as she ran her fingers under his shirt and fingered his abs beneath. They travelled lower until she felt his leather belt. The metal buckle. The tucked in portion which she swiftly untucked and unhooked. He gazed into her eyes, his hands resting gently on her shoulders, but his thighs quivering.

“You’ve got more to show me. I can feel it” she said quietly, pulling on his jeans belt loops intently, leading him backwards to the fireplace. He walked willingly, held in place by her fingers and his desire for her.

“What else do you have?” she asked.

He felt back on the shelves but was out of paper. They looked around for a while, but came up empty. She had an idea.

“Get on your knees, Peter” she said, feeling emboldened by her own overwhelming yearning for the giant man and his giant body. He dropped to them willingly, silently. “These are your next victim” she said, lifting her shape-fitting dress up to her hips, looping a finger under her tanga briefs, and snapping them against her skin.

He practically unloaded right there in his half-undone jeans at the sight, smell, and sound of her. “Fuck. Tara.” He breathed, pressing his face into her V. He inhaled her deeply, his eyes rolling back in his skull. He slid one hand between her legs and up against the small of her back, pulling her close against him. His other hand betrayed him and unbuttoned his jeans, pulling out his untamed length, and began stroking. Without even moving her black cotton panties, he slithered his tongue over the fabric and felt her shape underneath them, tasting her through the fibers, feeling her wetness seep onto his lips. He found her sensitive nub of nerves and lapped at it, sucking it through the panties and holding her close. She moaned, arching her back against him, squeezing her thighs together. He leaked precum all over his hand and stroked slowly, deliberately, feeling his balls tighten.

“No.” She stepped back from him and he was crestfallen, immediately compliant but achingly desperate. She bit her lower lip as she looked at him, kneeling before her, dripping cock in hand, loose black hair across his shoulders like a black waterfall. “Fuck. FUCK” she growled, her hands slipping over her panties again. “Remove these with your teeth. Burn them”, her voice cracking with desire.

With her words, he rolled his eyes back again, his mouth open and jaw slack, his hand cupping his aching balls. She stepped forward again and he barely resisted the urge to devour her once more, and did instead as she asked. He hooked one fang into the thin side of her black tanga and pulled downwards. She stepped out of them as he kept hold of them in his mouth. The very act made him inch closer to exploding all over the floor in a ruinous mess.

“Stand up, big boy” she moaned. As he complied, she slid his jeans down to his ankles, taking his purple Y-fronts with them. His cock bounced up proudly, smacking her in the cheek, and he smiled shyly down at her.

“Sorry… about him…” he whispers, holding her wet, creamy panties in one hand.

She placed the lighter in his other hand and he immediately forgot about his shyness. “You know what to do…” she says, as she kneeled in front of him, “…and I know what to do”, were the last words he heard from her.

Holding his length in one hand, she extended her tongue and lapped at the underside, tasted the oozing precum and slithered her tongue all over his leaking head. He growled loudly, throwing his head back and almost forgot his task. Just as she was about to reprimand him, he flicked the lighter wheel and began the flame, bringing the tanga close to the orange heat. His gaze was fixated on the flame, and after a while it caught the cotton fibres and they singed.

The sound immediately made his dick harden to a solid length, and she swallowed as much as she can, which ended up being not even half of it. He watched as the flames lick the panties and a whiff of smoke rose from them. The scent of burning filled his nostrils and he growled, just as she pulled down on his heavy balls, her red fingernails scratching against his flesh.

“Ahhh. Fuck. Fuck. Tara.” He managed, watching the fire engulf her creamy panties. “Fuck. I can’t. I… fuck…” he couldn't help himself and bucked his hips against her, filling her throat until she gagged at his size. She didn't stop, instead using her other hand to massage the rest of his long dick that couldn't fit in her mouth.

As the flames overwhelm the cotton underwear, he dropped them into the fireplace and slid his fingers into her auburn hair, fucking her mouth. “Tara… Red…. I’m… I’m gonna cum… in your mouth” he managed.

She just mumbled on his dick, giving him permission to unload inside her.

“Oh god girl here I fuggin cum” he growled, tensing as his body spasmed. He shot three powerful jets of cum down her throat before she pulled back slightly, but he hadn't finished, and he spurted all over her face and throat before painting her chest too.

She laughed but he just grabbed his cock and stroked, pouring the rest of his spunk into the firepit as he had done thousands and thousands of times before, alone.

Finally, he collapsed on his knees, his cock softening in his hands, his palm a mess, and his hair hanging in front of his face. She inched close to him, wiping her face with her hand and licking her fingers. With her free, clean hand, she tucked his long hair behind his ear. His breath heavy, utterly spent, leaning back on his knees.

“Mmmm. Best dessert on the planet” she smiled softly at him and he watched her eat his cum off her face.

“What the fuck did I do to deserve you, woman?” he looked at her intently.

“I don’t know, but you’d better take me for a shower now, because you’ve definitely claimed me” she laughed, patting her wet and stained dress.

**************

Chapter Text

Sacramento

Smoke lingers above the countertop, a haze of blue and purples. The red lights shine down gently. It is dim, but she knows her way around the back of this bar. “Hey Jimmy, two more please thank you!” she hollers at the tender drying the glasses. He nods and smiles. The beat thumbs her veins and she taps on the old mahogany countertop. It is less crowded back here and she pulls her figure-hugging skirt back over her mid-thigh. It had risen while she danced. Slightly buzzed by the alcohol, she pans around the crowd as Jimmy hands her two shots. She downs one immediately and pays him with notes. “Keep it, babe” she winks at him and turns back around, holding the other brandy shot. She feels the buzz of her phone in her small shoulder bag and takes it out. A saucy message awaits her. She decides to take the time to reply and spots an empty booth in the corner and makes her way there, eyes fixed on the soft light of her phone.

Two unseen feet poke out from under the table and she crashes headlong into them. She slams her hand onto the table, spilling both her brandy and the glass that was already on the table all over the floor and the person sitting in the dark.

“Ah fuck oh my christ fuck I’m so sorry” she babbles, wiping her hands on her dress and trying to right the glass on the table.

“’S Ok” comes a deep drawl from the dim shadows. She turns and asks for a towel from Jimmy, returning to mop up the spillage.

“Fuck. Fuck. Let me buy you another one” she murmurs, as the owner of the tripped-over feet leans forward. Only one side of his face is visible, the rest covered by the fluffiest, thickest, blackest hair she’d ever seen. “Uhhhh… umm w…what are you having…” she swallows. His eyes are downturned, his lips full and impassive, a metal bar through his eyebrow.

“Vodka” came the drawl and he slips back against the booth, back into shadow, this time careful to pull his feet back under the table. Christ how long are his legs, if they reach all the way here?

She walks back over to Jimmy and asks for a refill of both the vodka and her brandy. She keeps her eyes fixed on the booth but she can’t see anything. Suddenly, a lighter flicks open and she catches a glimpse of him as he lights up. The orange glow is so juxtaposed to the darkness that her pupils pinprick as she stares at him. A small hint of a neck tattoo climbs up his jawline and she can see his ears are full of metal hoops. She swallows again, just as Jimmy hands her the glasses.

“Know who that is?” He asks her, nodding over to the darkness, where now only the red point of a glowing cigarette light glimmers.

“Nope. Gonna find out though” she mumbles as she returns.

The song changes and so do the disco lights, flicking over in rhythmic lines to light up the bar area. As she walks over she can see the outline of him. “Here. Sorry, again” she mumbles.

He leans forward and his hair drags along the top of the table. “Thanks”. An impossibly deep drawl. He accepts the drink, the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. His eyes flick up to her. Cool blue pools of impassivity meet hers. She can only stand, dumbstruck. He nods to the chair. “Unless you want to kick me again.” She gapes at him, caught unaware by his deadpan comment. On automatic hands, she pulls the chair out and sits down to the side of him. He leans forward on his elbows, tipping his head back at her as if asking her name. His arms are covered with a worn leather jacket, and underneath is a tank top emblazoned with a green and black band logo, but she can’t make out what it says.

“Jade” she says, pointing at herself like an imbecile and then, deepening the idiocy, points at him.

“Tarzan” he says, unsmiling.

A snort of awkward laughter threatens to break free and she coughs it back instead. “What brings you out of the jungle then, tree man?” she says, trying desperately not to get lost in his blue eyes.

“Felt like getting kicked by a tall woman” he said, taking a drag on his cigarette and chasing it with a large gulp of vodka. “And yourself?” he pushed a palm through his hair, moving it rather than pulling his fingers through it. So thick, she thought.

“Trying to dance away the blues” she replied, sipping the brandy. “Kicking handsome men is a side effect” she said. Then realised what she’d said. Her eyes widened but his face stayed impassive. The smallest ghost of a smile on his lips? That full cupids bow threatened to disrupt her entire train of thought.

“To sadism” he held up his glass and clinked hers, still in her hand, and downed his vodka in one gulp. The strong alcohol had almost no effect on him outwardly and she wondered how many he’d had. He licked his lips and replaced the cigarette, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulls out a crumpled pack of smokes, offering her one. She was at just the right level of drunkenness where smoking felt like a good idea, and she nodded.

“Oh, wait a moment. Can you hang on?” she slides the chair back, her face apologetic. “Be right back” she glances over at the Ladies sign and now a smirk spreads across his face. She feels rooted to the spot suddenly, watching the left corner of his lips pull up.

“Go right ahead. Got nowhere else to be” he said slowly. She spotted a thick Brooklyn accent coating the words as the “T”s became clipped on his lips.

She turned on legs that felt heavy and walked through the door.

She gripped the sink, staring at herself in the harsh strip lighting in the bathroom. “Come on J. Jesus christ” she said, feeling flushed. The phone buzzed in her bag again and she opted to answer it while peeing.

• “J whatcha up to girl”?
• “In Catty, fueled by brandy and now a cigarette”
• “Not gonna come keep me warm tonight?”
• “Doubtful. Got something happening. Maybe. His face is unreadable”
• “Oh no another aloof one. Keep me updated girl. Miss ya tonight”
• “Always big man. See you on the weekend?”
• “It’s a date”

She put the phone back in her bag, washed her hands, and straightened the dress while fluffing her hair. She walked out.

The booth was empty and her heart dropped.

She tried to keep her face nonchalant but she could feel the heat rise up to her cheeks with disappointment. She opted to sit there anyway because she was already on the way and didn’t want to turn on her heel suddenly in case anyone was looking. She put her hand on the back of the chair and noticed his jacket was still on the bench. Her heart leapt and she looked around.

He was standing at the bar. The music was loud and thumping but at that moment everything fell away from her like an avalanche.

Jeans clung to his legs, faded and black and tucked into his loose biker boots. The tank top was cut into deep arm holes and the neck tattoo was in fact an entire snaking sleeve that started at one wrist and wrapped around his bicep all the way up to his neck. Probably across his back too. His hair was pulled across his shoulder but as he talked to Jimmy it flopped against his back, hanging almost to his waist. He was tall. Impossibly tall. Probably 6 and a half foot. Long, thin fingers. She sucked her bottom lip and crossed her legs as she watched him and pressed her chin to her hand.

Jimmy turned to get his order and he looked over at the booth then, spotting her. His face was stoic, but was there a flash of something in his eyes? He blinked at her and met her gaze. Automatically, she twisted a tendril of hair around her finger and bounced her foot gently. His eyes dragged over her, from her arms down her bare legs to her Rock Boot heels. Jimmy returned, placing the four glasses in front of him and he paid before carrying the alcohol back over to the table.

He slid into the booth and placed two glasses with double shots of brandy in front of her. “Thought Jade could do with more libation” he drawled and drank his clear liquid. She just blinked at him. “Or was I incorrect?” The same cool blue eyes stared at her from under sleepy lids.

“Correct. Tarzan was correct.” She accepted the brandy, downing one of them, feeling the burn from her lips to her stomach and instantly warmed.

Another smirk. “Glad. Some women are weird about it”.

“About what?”

“Being bought drinks.”

“Did you put anything in it?”

“Like my dick?”

A red flush from her toes to the tips of her fingers. “Uh I mean like spiking it”.

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“You said some women are weird. That’s why.”

“Then people that spike drinks should be castrated.” He downed his vodka and started on the other one.

“But putting your dick in the drink is ok?”

“Well only if that’s what you’d like to see.”

Another thick flush and she had to cough, her throat closing. “I… uh… I have no words.” The brandy was making her giggly and she pulled her fingers through her hair absentmindedly.

“And yet you have words to say such” he smirked at her again. “It’s Josh, by the way.” He held out his hand to her and she took it. His fingers were long and thin and toned. She noticed hairbands on his wrists in green and purple and wondered distractedly what colour his underwear was.

“Pleased to meet you Tarzan.” She smirked back at him and he snorted laughter but didn’t smile. “Does that offer still stand?”

“Well if you insist” he said, motioning down to his jeans buttons.

“No uh no I mean… the cigarette” she said, feeling the blush again and wanting to giggle.

He looked vaguely disappointed and reached into his jacket for the crumpled box. He shook one out and handed it to her, finding the lighter and waiting for her. He lit the end of the cigarette and she inhaled, the smoke tasting delicious after the brandy.

“What brings you here?” she said, leaning back and crossing her legs. She was aware he could see her bare skin.

“Isn’t that a line I should use?”

“No, the line you’re looking for is ‘come here often’.”

“Right. Clearly, I haven’t had much practice. Just on a night off, so thought I’d check out the nightlife. It was going ok until you kicked me.” He inhaled on his own cigarette and chased it down with another long gulp of the vodka.

“Or maybe I improved it” she said, jiggling her foot inches away from him. She caught his eyes flick from her cigarette down to her thighs and back up again. He saw her watching him and the Adams apple in his throat bobbed, but his face stayed impassive. This look, he’d practiced, she thought. “A night off from what?”

“The seventh circle of hell, if I believed in all that.” He exhaled a big puff of smoke and pushed his hair away from his eyes. “Tour schedule is killing me, but slowly. Can’t even get that right”. He looked at her with an unreadable look in his eyes.

“Tour? Like, a band?”

“Mhm.”

“What do you… wait. Lemme guess. Drummer?”

“Oh, I give off neanderthal vibes? Thanks.”

“Ok not a drummer. Guitarist?”

He held up his pristine fingers. “No scabs. Not strong enough.”

She stroked her chin, genuinely thoughtful. She looked him up and down. He definitely gave off a metal band atmosphere, but she couldn’t place it.

“Singer.”

“Sometimes.”

“Tour manager?”

“I fuggin hope not. They’d all die.”

“Ok I have no idea. You got me in a box here.”

“Sounds like fun. Is there a lock to this cage?”

He licked his lips and she nearly slid off the chair. His fingers made wiggling actions and she finally got it.

“Piano! Keyboards!” She nodded at her, his eyes hinting at a smile. She looked him up and down again, thoughtful. “Ok so, this is gonna make me sound super ignorant. But metal bands don’t usually have keyboardists?”

He took a drag on his cigarette, looking into the gloom of the bar. “I’m just there to ruin the songs. Generally, I play a few notes, Pete says can’t do any better, and that’s it” he exhaled over his shoulder.

“Pete?” A glimmer of recognition flitted through her brain, but struggled to make pathways through the brandy.

“You know, the one all the girls go for. I don’t wanna remind you otherwise you’ll be eyefucking him too and leave me with just my right hand again as usual” he smirked but the cool blue of his eyes belied his genuine worry.

“You’re picking the girls with cataracts, there’s your problem” she finished the cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. The brandy was a dredge in the glass and she swallowed it. A thorough buzz was forming in her brain, giddiness replacing the giggles she’d felt earlier.

He didn’t say anything and instead fixed her with a gaze under hooded eyes. “You want another? Or…” he hesitated, a sudden break in the impassive confidence, making her realise a lot of this was a façade.

“Or? Finish your sentence, Tarzan” she leaned forward slightly, thinking about what he does with his right hand.

“Or should I kidnap you onto the bus” he finished with a push, blinking at her, blinking back the hesitation.

“It’s not kidnap if I come willingly, now is it? Do you have more brandy on there?” She couldn’t suppress the hiccup that developed in her throat and he smirked at her.

“Brandy. Vodka. Wine. Other shit.” He said vaguely, standing up and stretching. His tank top slid up over his lower belly and she was transfixed. A thin line of black hair travelled down under his faded black jeans to where she couldn’t see but was desperate to know, and the start of a tattoo appeared at the hem of his shirt. She couldn’t stand up quick enough in agreement.

“Lead the way, Tarzan”.

He grabbed his jacket and walked in front of her, pausing to make sure she was with him and comfortable. She followed him out the bar, without realising that when he said bus, he had meant TOUR bus. Said vehicle was parked around the corner. She hadn’t known what to expect but it certainly wasn’t this. A huge black double decker bus took up the entire parking area. The side was extended to make the width even wider as it parked up for the night. He paused at the door and it slid open, exposing a steep stairway and a driver’s cab.

“Thanks, Tony” he said, his voice deep and slow. “Coming up?” he started to climb the stairs and looked down at her, his black hair covering his neck and shoulders. Any thought of hesitation or concern flipped out of her mind, and she joined him on the stairs.

As she stepped onto the bus she heard thumping music from somewhere, the sound more of a vibration than harmony. The area she walked into was clad in black leather and the ceiling had starlit shine added to it. Two long sofas on either side of the bus, two TVs embedded into the walls, and a small kitchenette at the back of the lounge area. It was empty, but there was a door to another area of the bus that was closed.

“Welcome to the fucking abode” Josh said sourly, motioning to the sofa as he walked over to the fridge. “What do we have. Fuck, that asshole has taken the entire bottle again” he grumbled, looking in the fridge and then in the cooler box under the countertop. “Well, there’s no brandy. We’ve got… I guess half a bottle of whiskey, a case of wine, and three bottles of vodka. Also beer and other shit.” He turned to her, expectantly.

She was looking around, a bit starstruck and dizzy with brandy. “Uh… I guess the wine? Anything else and my brain will genuinely break apart in the morning with the hangover.”

He looked over to the closed door and hesitated. “You’re on. Lemme just… lemme just check something…”

He opened the door and the thumping music got louder. He walked through and she could see all the way to the back. He turned suddenly and looked like he went up some stairs.

She sat quietly, twiddling her thumbs. The door led to an untidy aisle with discarded shoes and what looked like a bag of laundry. It was the bunking area; she could see a mattress in one of the holes with the curtain pulled back. There was another door at the end of the aisle, pulled partway closed. As she was looking at it, a pair of long, bare, hairy legs walked past it. She blinked but they were gone.

Josh jumped down into the aisle again, into her view. He looked back to where she was looking and saw the door. He slid it closed carefully and then slid the bunking door closed too. “We’re good for the wine” he said, opening the bottom of one of the sofa seats and exposing a case of wine bottles. “Red?”

“Red” she murmured, inquisitive.

“Good, ‘cause he only drinks red, fuckin’ freak” he said, pouring a glass out for her.

He sat down next to her with the bottle of vodka in his hand and shook his fluffy hair over his shoulders. “So, I’m on a break from the seventh circle. You come here often?”

She could feel the warmth of his body next to hers and he smelt of tobacco and clean soap. Bergamot. Her nostrils flared as she accepted the wine glass and drank from it. Merlot. Dry as fuck after the brandy and her mouth was devoid of saliva suddenly.

“Ah. That’s the line you’re looking for” she said, crossing her legs as she turned to him. She balanced the glass on her knee and pressed her cheek into her palm, leaning on the back of the sofa. She felt emboldened by the excitement and the alcohol. “Are you genuinely interested or making a move?”

He considered this for longer than he should have and she realised he was taunting her gently. “Genuinely making a move.”

“’s my local. Dancing away the terror is what I do on a Friday. Was going to answer a booty call with my bestie but figured kicking you was way more fun”.

“Glad you chose this hunk of chemicals over a definite fuck. You shouldn’t have.” He reached around and opened the arm to the sofa. Ample storage, she thought ridiculously. “What terror?” He asked, taking out a small metal tin. He started rolling a joint as she spoke.

“Generic millennial terror” she smirked, watching him work. “Planets going to shit and there’s nothing we can do about it”.

“Yeah, but the quicker it ends the better eh. Rather just get it over with.” He licked the ends of the paper and expertly rolled the cylinder together in one movement. “Personally, we’re all hoping for a fucking asteroid. Pete’s convinced there’s one about to hit us soon anyway.”

He shrugged off the leather jacket and throws it across the aisle. A waft of his scent hit her and she breathed in deeply. His arms were so close to her. The tattoos fresh and colourful and beautiful. She wanted to trace her finger over one of them, the bubble letters spelling something she couldn’t quite make out. He leaned back against the sofa and lights the joint, noticing her gaze as he inhales deeply. “Same guy did all of these. Covered up the bullshit stabbing attempts I made on myself as a kid.” He twisted his arm and she could see the letters properly.

“Made in NYC.” She lifted her hand and started to touch his arm but hesitated, her eyes flicking up to his icy blue stare. He nodded and opened his arms a bit more to give her access. “Thought I could hear the Brooklyn in you.”

She traced the lines that made up the letters and the impression of the skyline. He tensed his forearm and thick veins popped under his skin. She caught herself moaning gently as her fingers traced over them, and she was very aware of his body heat. She flicked her eyes up over his torso, meaning to meet his gaze, but it rested instead on the band logo on his black cut up tee shirt. “Life is Killing Me” it said, with a heartbeat symbol in the middle of it. Her eyes travelled up his jawline and met his impassive gaze. His lips curled up slightly into a small smile as he removed the joint and offered it to her.

She took it, keeping her gaze fixed on his, hoping she was being as sultry as she thought she was. He watched her lips as she inhaled, and blew out a cloud over her shoulder, giving it back to him.

“The Brooklyn in me eh. I’m so deeply sorry.” Her fingers remained on his forearm, tracing the veins up to his elbow joint and over his bicep. He watched her until her fingers landed at the ripped edges of his shirt on his shoulder, when he suddenly leant over and gripped her neck, long fingers curling around her throat. He bent down and captured her lips with his. That full cupids bow pressed against her lip and she could taste a mixture of alcohol, weed, and tobacco on his tongue as it slid between the parting of her mouth. She moaned softly and he pressed against her harder. His hair covered her face, curtaining them from the rest of the lounge, his hands so long and commanding around her neck. Four fingers pressed against her throat and the thumb on her jaw. He turned her face easily, powerfully, and his lips travelled across her jawline and down her neck where he planted a kiss against her vein. She gasped, her hands on his waist, and as he parted his lips to expose his teeth against her skin, she dragged her nails up his back. A growl escaped both of them at the same time, he slicing into her tender neck flesh and her nails dragging heavily up his back until welts formed.

“Whoooooops! Sorry!” a voice from the side of the room called. Neither had heard the door slide open and Jade jumped apart from him. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and coughed, a flush of embarrassment travelling from her toes to her cheeks. Josh meanwhile just smirked, allowing her to move back.

“Door was shut, Ken. Shoulda known.” He drawled, picking the joint back up and inhaling. She looked around and a long-haired tall man was standing in the doorway, a lopsided grin on his face as he reached into the kitchen cabinet for a glass.

“Yep, yep, gotcha, Farrah” he slides the door closed again, ducking to get under the door frame.

She turns back to Josh and looks at him expectantly. “Guitarist. ADHD as fuck but a good guy if you can keep up with him.”

“A Sultan to your Jasmine, by the sounds of it. And what the fuck do they put in the water in Brooklyn? You boys all over six foot tall over there?”

His eyes widen at that. “You really haven’t seen Peter, have you?”

“No, why would you say that?”

“You’d know if you’d know.” Another cloud of smoke and his eyes lidded closed.

“Alright mystery man. Just stay awake enough to keep this going, woncha?”

“Takes more than some green to keep me down, honey.”

With that endearment she felt dampness slide its way across her thighs. “What if I want you down?” She insinuated. He offered her the joint and as she dragged on it, he licked his lips slowly, crawling over to her like an animal, on his knees. Her eyes popped open and she nearly dropped the joint. “I… uhhh…”

“You said down. I took that as an invitation” and his hands were on her dress now, pushing it up to her thighs. “Unless…” a hesitation.

She couldn’t shake her head fast enough, giving him all the permission that he needed.

The metal hoops in his ear jangled softly as he leaned down against her, pushing her into the sofa with his body. His eyes were still impassive, cool blue hues, but he was breathing heavily and deeply. He was skinny but so much bigger than her that she felt small and weightless under him. He pressed his torso against hers and opened her legs with his thighs. With either arm on each side of her face, he moved his chin down and pulled her dress over her bra with his teeth. She suddenly felt very exposed and pulled her hands up to her face, covering her breasts.

This was met with an icy stare from his eyes and she quickly removed her hands. She expected him to undo his trousers and slip inside her but he kept moving down her body. And further down, hesitating only to lift her skirt hem over her hips and play with the silky fabric underneath.

She was nervous for about three and a half seconds when his hot mouth came full contact to her already drenched pussy, tracing the outline of her folds right over the silk. A deep growl left his throat and travelled along his tongue and made a beeline for her clit. She squeaked in pleasure, and her hands came down and tangled in his thick bushy hair. After he’d made a thorough soppy mess of her panties, he pulled them aside to blow on her damp folds. He growled softly as he saw the thick mound of trimmed hair there, naturally strawberry blonde and coated in her desire.

“Goddamn girl” he moaned, nuzzling her baby soft fur.

“You like it?” she sighed.

“Fucking insanely arousing. Curtains match the carpets” he breathed on her erect clit and slid his tongue over it.

So rare to find a man who not only didn’t mind hair, but enjoyed it. He was clearly an expert at this. She scooped his fluffy hair in the palm of her hand but couldn’t grab all of it.

He reached up and twirled her nipples around in his long fingers as he devoured her to the point of climax.

“Keep… keep… doin’ that… and I’m…. gonna drown ya” she squeaked, trying to be quiet but failing at his stabbing tongue. He ramped up his intensity but kept the pace the same, agonisingly teasing and she felt herself release the coil that had tightened in her belly. “Josh… Josh… Oh god…” And then she did flood him.

He rumbled in approval, massaging his thick bulge against the plush leather of the sofa under him. As he swallowed her, he lapped between her folds and nestled his nose against her throbbing clit. She looked down and he was watching her face closely. She smiled shyly and he released her, kneeling back on his haunches. She travelled her eyes down over his torso and to his jeans, her eyes popping at the sight.

“Holy fuck… you’re packing heat baby” she said, lifting herself up on her elbows.

“Everyone goes to see Pete. They don’t take into account Jew dick” he smirked at himself, standing up on the floor. “Get on your knees, Jade.”

She felt commanded by his low, deep voice and did as he asked. He ended up being the perfect height as she knelt in front of him. His hands unsheathed himself and she was almost smacked in the face by an 8 inch girthy monster. Thick around the shaft, big mushroom head, huge silky soft balls. A layer of precum that nearly dripped onto the floor, but not before she caught it with her tongue.

“Good girl. Didn’t even need to say anything” he moaned as she lapped at the underside of his cock, sliding it around and over the head. With her other hands she cupped his heavy balls.

As she sucked down on the head and shaft, she looked up at him. His head was tipped back and his lips parted, eyes heavily lidded. As she tried to fit him completely down her throat, she gagged a bit and she felt his hand on the back of her head. He held her there – possessively, not aggressively, and her pussy drenched all the way down her thighs again. She moved her head back and forth, using her hands on his balls and the small bit of shaft she couldn’t fit in her mouth. Every man she’d ever been with had complemented her on this technique and it clearly wasn’t failing her now, because Josh let out a roar before pulling her up and turning her back over.

“Nuh uh you don’t get to swallow that. Not on the first date” he snarled, forcing her down onto the sofa on her knees. He balanced his dick on the back of her ass crack, reaching into his jacket pocket for a rubber. With practiced ease, he tore it open and slid it on quickly, before shoving all eight inches inside her tender post-orgasm pussy. She squealed, all thoughts of being quiet forced from her mind as he rammed into her, slowly but deeply. She felt as if her mind was floating out of her ears and she dribbled onto the leather sofa in ecstasy.

“Reach back Jade. Show me that asshole” he slurred at her, close to her ear as he bent over her, bucking into her. He bit roughly into her shoulder, and she knew it would mark, but at this moment she didn’t care. Pain mixed with pleasure, and she needed more. She pressed her face against the leather sofa and dug her nails into her ass crack, pulling her cheeks apart as he leant back.

“Oh my fucking christ” came a low snarl as he gazed into her. His thrusts became harder still. Her cheeks wobbled with the impact. “So fucking pink and tight. Fucking perfect. Fucking PERFECT” he snarled again, licking his finger and running it over the puckering hole. She squeaked, bouncing herself back against his cock. He was splitting her apart, the girthiness holding thick veins from root to tip.

“Gonna.. Gonna cum… Josh” she managed, her brain like mush.

“Come with me baby. Come with me. Come with me inside you…” he managed, pressing his finger against her winking hole, his balls slapping up and hitting her on the clit.

With simultaneous roars of frenzy, he filled the rubber in a heavy load and she gushed all the way down his shaft and soaking into his thighs through his jeans. When he’d finished, he pulled out of her roughly and pushed her forwards so she landed face down and splayed on the leather sofa. He pulled the used rubber and tied a knot in it, throwing it into the trashcan and tucking himself back in his now stained jeans, all in less than ten seconds of movement.

“C’mere” he panted, sitting down and pulling her into a bundle onto his lap. She breathed heavily but steadily, totally fucked out of existence, and her knees pulled up to her chest as she sat in a curl against him. “Gotcha” he whispered, kissing her forehead and wrapping his arms around her. Eons passed and she felt her brain return to her body.

“F…first date?” she managed, remembering the heat of the moment.

He blinked at her, trying to remember what he’d said. “Oh. Right. Hah. Well, if you’d like there to be a second date, I’m sure I can organise a dessert for you.”

She smirked at him, enjoying the feeling of his protective arms around her abused body. “Mmm. Like that” she managed, resting her head against his chest. He rocked her, comfortable in this position, in this situation. He pressed his head against her forehead, and she wondered what he was feeling. Unless he was balls deep in her, he was basically an unreadable statue. She yawned, feeling very sleepy.

**************

Chapter Text

A forest

Exit music thrums in his ears as they stalk off the stage, into the gloom of the back maze. Torches light his way over the tangled snakes of cables and wires, his nose itching and twitching, sweat pouring into puddles on his skin.

“Ken, you good?” The guitarist meets him head on from the other side of the stage, still strapped to his black and green machine, eyes wide.

“V just accosted me…”

His eyes turn to saucers and mouth dries of all saliva. When he swallows it’s like sandpaper. It’s never enough.

“Follow me.”

Kenny unstraps his guitar, handing it to the tech, and the two men take a quick left into the gents’, locking the door. With wild, unsteady hands, Kenny undoes the twist tie and the saran wrap falls open. They both stare at it dumbly.

“You first” he commands, his voice slow and lyric. It’d been three days. Tara was around, and he loved it, but he hated it, he loved her but hated the part of himself that needed this bullshit.

Well-practiced, sharp movements followed as Kenny sliced four big lines on the countertop with his card. He never used it for money, of course, just for heaven.

A dollar billed rolled in his calloused fingers, he leant down and inhaled hungrily. One. Two. As the snorting grew beneath him. Peter caught sight of himself in the mirror and instantly regretted it.

“Move” he commanded again, and Kenny was already reeling backwards, holding the bridge of his nose and sniffing wildly as Pete followed suit.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fucking hoo-ahh” Kenny was growling but all Pete could hear was his thundering heartbeat which was about to increase in speed and ferocity any second. The second line lodged in his nose and he snorted loudly, the mucus forming and clogging his throat. Kenny was mumbling something. He looked over and realised his friend was actually shouting. Only then he realised the coke was exceptionally, surprisingly, world-endingly strong. The lights in the bathroom pinpricked his eyes and the floor fell away from him. He reached out to steady his spinning body and misplaced his hand, slamming against the doorframe instead. His ears rang and finally he could hear other sounds, but damn this was something else.

“Fuck she’s got the good stuff ahhh fuck” Kenny was burbling, his eyes utterly blown apart. He thumped a balled fist against his chest and then gripped the door, going to open it.

“Ken what the fuck man” Pete grabbed his arm and pulled him around, wiping his thumb under the other man’s nose. “Gonna have-ta keep my eye on you” he said, not unkindly.

The rest of the after party blurred into inexistence, a multitude of flesh and music and alcohol and hysterical laughter. At about 1am the bus call was made and the party moved to the parking lot. Hangers on tried to get on board but Mark was all hands in the air and red lights, so the boys were finally free.

He stumbled up the stairs, coming down already and hating it. The cold light of the bus and musty, sweaty smell turned his stomach and he wondered when last he’d eaten something that used to be a plant. This bus had a step between the lounge and the stairway and every single time he stepped into it he hit his head. This time was no exception and rage-filled anger filled his fists. Everything came to the fore in his mind and turned inwards. All he could think about was cutting into his flesh to centre himself. He made a beeline to the bathroom, ignoring the chatter from the lounge as the boys tried to ride out the come down and get some sleep. The bus rumbled to life.

Just as he turned to the left and slid the door to the tiny bathroom closed, he saw her rise in the dark from their make-shift bed in the back lounge. Damnit. Not now, Tara. He closed the door all the way shut and sat on the closed-lidded toilet, head in his hands.

Twenty minutes later he emerged. The blood coagulated into welts, and he felt far more at ease. He turned right and back into the lounge, only Kenny and Johnny were still up. Josh had succumbed to another Valium and was snoring in the bunks as he passed. Kenny was wired. Too wired. No sigh of Tara.

“Ken. She awake?”

“Nah man. She came through for water but that was it.”

“Yeah. Yeah ok” he sat down, shaking his leg slightly, his fingers restless on his knee. Silence invaded the three men as the bus rolled miles beneath their bodies.

Johnny flicked open the laptop, clicking through endless games of solitaire, the ecstasy in his system making sleep impossible.

Kenny looked at Peter sheepishly. “D…do you…”

“Don’t ask me man. You know what I’m gonna say”

Decisive movements across the small table stroked up two more white lines and Kenny’s hair clouded his vision as he leant down and sucked up the blow, Peter following suit. Noisily sucking back the powder.

Another hour blitzed into the ether as the two men talked loudly about their fears, their loves, their lost opportunities. Pete looked over and noticed Johnny had long since left and looked down at his Casio watch. How was it 3am? Always 3am. Kenny’s eyes wide and sagging, he made his way to the bunks. Sleep would never come, but he’d be in there for another few hours, massaging himself to his wife.

And he was alone with his thoughts. Again. Alone. Covered with attention and people and love and everything he had ever wanted and was totally, desperately alone with his thoughts. This simply would not do. This heat rising in his veins called for oblivion. He reached into Kenny’s jacket and found the remnants of V’s 8 ball. Just enough. It’s never enough.

He pinched out a bump and snorted it right off his thumb knuckle. The relief from his own brain was instantaneous, as was the thundering heartbeat in his ears. Suddenly anxious, he stood up rapidly, his legs taking on their own mind. He paced. Up. Down. Up. Six steps. Four steps. Six steps. Back. Forth. Fists clenching. The lights. The lights. Swallowing through a tongue that felt like sandpaper. Up. Down. Shaking. The shaking. Pleasure fuses into pain.

He gasped. Feeling the rising heat in his heat and sweat pouring down his neck and chest. Drenching his tank top. Puddling his mind.

The door. To the back room. He can make it. His feet feel too heavy for the floor and he’s certain he falls straight through the steel and onto the rolling tarmac below. A big hand grips out at the frame between the bunks.

Thumping through the sliding door to the back lounge, he nearly trips over the makeshift bed and sits down heavily on the couch, panting, his heart racing. Fire burns hot and cold through his veins and he can feel his heartbeat in his eyeballs. Something wet falls down on his cheek and he suddenly realises it’s his own tears.

A sound. Far away. She’s calling to him. Her fingers like tendrils across his bicep. Ice-hot.

“Pete? Pete hey baby hey…” she’s calling to him. Nothing matters except his heartbeat. A stutter stop. A thud. In his stomach. Across his chest. Ah fuck the tightness. He stands. Reaches for the cupboard. His hand falls short and he stumbles.

She’s sitting up in bed now and flicks on the lamp to the side of the bed. “Pete. Hey.” Suddenly awake and alert. She watches the sweat bead down his face and he can’t say anything, his tongue feeling thick and thirsty, his stomach rolling.

Three strides and he just makes it into the bathroom again, lifting the lid and retching the entire contents of his nearly-empty stomach into the bowl. Again. Again. Until just bile exists. His eyes fell like they’ll pop right out and roll around on the linoleum floor. She’s next to him now, holding a cold cloth to the back of his neck, but it just makes him feel sicker. He retches, just air coming up.

She’s shouting. It’s coming from another planet.

“JOSH!” she screams, not letting go of the back of his neck, holding his black hair away from the toilet bowl. His skin is clammy, grey.

Six loud footsteps and Josh enters bleary-eyed and wearing white boxers. “Fuck not again” he moans, words slurring, and exists the room.

Another retch, panic setting in. Walls closing. Heart racing. I can’t I can’t I can’t it’s never enough I can’t breathe I can’t

Josh returns, wrenching an orange lid off a small bottle, shaking out two pills and kneeling beside her. Calmly, he grabs Peter’s head and twists it towards him, forcing the pills into his mouth closing his jaw, making him swallow it dry. “Water” he commands, and Tara fills the plastic cup at the sink.

“You fucking asshole” Josh slurs, watching his friend closely. The sweat streams down his head and into his eyes as he retches again. “Keep that the fuck in.” He commands, gripping the bicep clutching the toilet bowl. “Four minutes. Keep it the fuck in”

Tara’s face is twisted in agonising worry. She fiddles with the hem of her shirt and kneels back on bare legs, covered in his sweat.

Four minutes pass as eons, his mind flitting in and out of consciousness and light. Breathing steadies. Muscles relax. He can no longer feel the inside of his brain. He gasps fresh air into his burning lungs, sitting back on his haunches, spitting, clearing the mucus from his throat again into the toilet, but this brings a fresh wave of sickness and he retches but manages to keep it in.

Josh rubs his soaking wet back, his fingers digging into the tense muscles there. “Yeah, yeah. Did too fucking much again eh.” His words slur and his eyes droop. “Valium’ll kick in soon. Just wait it out man”.  He looks over, spotting Tara on her knees, face torn up in worry. “Not the first, won’t be the last. Keep these. Saves him eh” He smiles that half-lipped smirk and slowly raises himself on his legs. “You’ll be ok?” It wasn’t really a question. He was already out of the bathroom as Tara inspected the bottle.

With a voice that felt like it was coming from a mannequin, he moaned into the toilet bowl. “Sorry. That was disgusting.”

She placed the bottle on the counter and rubbed the back of his neck again. “Yeah. Well. Lucky I love you.”

The words spliced through his agony and he filled his cheeks with a fresh intake of air. “Tara… I….”

“Shut it, Pete. Just relax. I’m here.”

Her hands dragged into his damp hair, pulling it into a low ponytail down his back. The floor stopped moving and the walls stopped moving in on him. His chest though. God damn. The elephant sitting on his chest.

“Can you stand?” She was pulling at his hand now. Long legs unfolded from under him and he pushed back on the toilet bowl, attempting to flush it as he stood and nearly falling. She grabbed his waist and pulled him back towards the room and the mattress they used as a bed. “Gotta wash you down, ok? Stay still for a moment…” She grabbed the packet of wet wipes and ran the cold material over his arms, chest, neck, and forehead, before turning slightly and doing the same down his back. He shivered, unable to control the movements. On shaky legs, he knelt down on the mattress and lay back slowly. The spinning had stopped but it felt like a heavy blanket was pressing down on him, devouring him in darkness.

“Tara…” he swallowed, worried at the sudden grasping dark coils. She lay next to him, pressing his head into her breasts, stroking his bicep. “I’m here. I’m here Peter. Breathe for me. Three, four, five, six” she counted up to twenty and back down again slowly. Blackness gripped him tight.

Green shining eyes in the dark.

Thirteen fingers gripping out to him. Fangs and blood.

Pulling him under.

Caustic acid.

Melting bone and sinew.

Craving, agony, burning.

Flames convulsing.

Tears staining cheeks, tasting hot and salty, mixing with blood.

With a shuddering, hitching gasp he sat bolt upright, bathed in a sunbeam breaking through split-apart blinds on the window. Bus. He’s on a bus. Wood veneer and scratchy fabric. The scent of men living together for months. The small TV buried into the wall of the small room was still on, playing silent rolling news. He squeezed his eyes closed, groaning at the ache in his chest, throat, stomach, and head. “Goddamit.”

She stirred next to him, curling around his body, her thighs touching his.

“Peter…” she said in her sleep, reaching over for him, her arm laying heavily on his leg. The weight of her grounded him, and he blinked in the morning light. Her soft hair against him. He lay back, the mattress moulding to his body once more. She signed and grasped him close. The Valium still coursing through his veins, he raised his wrist to check the time. Quarter past nine. How long had he been like this? What happened? Why…

The memories rushed back. Fuck. Fucking Vanessa. Again. Blowing his fucking brains out. He squeezed his eyes closed, grimacing, hating every atom in his god forsaken body.

Her fingers dragged down his chest, fondling the soft fur growing there, and he shivered under her touch. She was clearly awake.

“Tara…”

“Peter…” she growled, pulling lightly at the hair there. “You still with me, big man?”

“Barely. I… “ he swallowed. His throat was a jumble of needles and iron railings. “Fuck I’m sorry… for myself.”

She turned, leaning up on her elbow now. “That was close, Pete. Real close.” Seriousness cleaved the silence of the room like an ice pick and he swallowed again, coughing with the thick mucus residing in his throat. God his nose burnt.

“I don’t know… what I’m doing to myself.”

She kissed small flutters across his shoulder and looked up at him. Tired eyes and knitted bushy eyebrows caught her gaze. “Come here, Wolf.” He lay down next to her, collapsing into her embrace, feeling her breath on his forehead as she stroked his hair. The train running him over felt more like a truck now. After six centuries, she asked him a question.

“We’re stopping at the next town soon, Pete. Do you want to get some fresh air with me?”

He sighed, not wanting to leave the cocoon of their making. Bumps roused him from the threat of slumber again, and he realised the bus had stopped, with the three large Brooklyn bodies moving around the cramped confines. A large, long belch projected from the bathroom followed by a louder fart and a snigger. “Fucking ingrates” he murmured under his breath, trying not to laugh too. The Valium was leaving his body, and the near-overdose fading from the short term memory.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s find some where to walk this shit off, huh?” he leant down and kissed her stomach. The pale skin shivered under his lips and he ran his fingers gently over her belly. Soft and feminine. He felt something twitching in his pants and was frankly shocked. Given the amount of coke he’d done recently he was surprised anything was still living down there.

*********************************

Thirty minutes and a costume change later, he walked down the hill to a green area with her hand interlaced in his. Her boots clicked on the concrete next to him, the soft swish of her summer dress against her hips. Every scent and sound heightened in this state. Her hair smelling of pomegranates. The sunlight pin-pricked his eyes, which still felt like they were about to fall out of his skull at any slight jolt, but the Ray-Bans were doing a fair job of hiding the bags under his eyes. He snaked his tongue out over his lips, but it was still made of soggy cardboard, and he quickly regretted the action.

“Where do you wanna go, T?” He spluttered out, feeling the collective hangover threaten to overtake his limbs.

She looked around at the fading high street behind them, trying to find elements of anchorage. “Baby, I have no idea which part of the country we’re even in, let alone what’s here. So… let’s go that way I guess.”

In the distance, a gathering of trees clouded the horizon. The fresh air raising his spirits and moving his muscles from the lactic acid build up over the night’s restless nightmare.

“I have no idea either. This tour has been going on for so long they all kind of just blur together. I can’t even remember where we were last night.” He started to laugh and then remembered with a torrent his close call with the pale horse.

“Oh let’s go in there” her voice light and bright whistled to his ears as she motioned to the green woods. Every step he took was three of hers. “We’ll be back before two for the sound check, it’s only 11 now”. He grumbled acquiescence and was contentedly led down the path, through the gap in the low wooden fence, across a nipped-short patch of grass, and into the developing forest at the end of the town’s limits.

Confronting Josh as they had left the bus was a torturous affair, at least in Peter’s mind. Consumed by guilt, self-loathing, and a deep need to hide himself, he’d managed to pull himself together enough to walk through the front lounge and say hello to his keyboardist, oldest friend, and now also life saver. Throwing his well-worn leather jacket over his freshly-washed naked chest, he ran a hand through his hair and exited the back room ahead of Tara to make his appearance. Josh was already awake, chain smoking, and grumbling over his laptop.

“Joshie…”

He looked up and over his wire-rimmed glasses. Impassive, but his eyes smiled. “It lives.”

“Barely.”

Peter sat across on the sofa. “Look… I…”

“Shut up. Don’t wanna hear it.” Josh looked back at the screen, the mouse clicking through documents. “Just… I was gonna say watch it, but you won’t.”

Peter looked down at his feet. “Yeah. Thanks, anyway.”

Josh grumbled in his throat, but his eyes flicked over to his friend, eyeing the jacket and jeans combo. “Goin’ somewhere?”

“Tara thinks a walk will help.”

“Yeah. Be back for sound check, huh? Not that you ever stick to the levels anyway.”

The cool air wafted through his loose hair, freshly brushed and detangled, the noises of the town dropping to a low hum and then supplanted by the pensive breeze through the leaves above. A branch cracked under his feet, and he looked down. A carpet of brown and gold under his feet made his heart sing to life and he squeezed her palm gently, taking in a breath of nature into the tips and ends of his lungs.

They walked amicably for a few minutes, winding along the path and then leaving it at a large boulder, taking the turns around large trees at the will of their feet. Her sea-green dress hitched up to her thighs as she climbed over a fallen trunk and held her hand out for him. He smirked and stepped easily over it, his eyes never leaving the bare flesh of her meaty thigh for a second. That stirring drew his attention and he swallowed, wondering what would happen if he concentrated…

The shade softened the mid-morning heat and the city hum was a memory at best. Rustling of leaves above and crunching below. He looked up, appreciating the natural sounds and smells. “I wish we could just stay in the forest. Ignore your gig tonight. Type O can do fine without their bassist and frontman” she murmured, looking straight ahead but lips pulled into a soft smile.

His own twitched upwards. “It’s tempting…” He tilted his head back as he walked, inhaling deeply and enjoying the peacefulness of the forest and the feeling reverberating through his bones. “They’d probably be better off without me. More time for the crew to work, less drugs to hide…” his voice soft and low. Then, brighter, “Let’s run away and I can grow a big beard and live in the woods. Hunt rabbits for a living.” He stepped over a big root, the dirt caking the underside of his size 15s. “And what would you do, instead?” His head turns to her askance, and she looked right at him, eyebrows stern but a glint in her dark eyes.

A soft babbling stream to the left became louder, and suddenly they opened out into a small clearing of grass, boulders, and surrounded by leafy oaks. “Oh Peter…” she whispered, broke from his grasp, and twirled in the sunlight. The skirts of her dress spun out as she moved, lifting slightly and revealing pink lace. “Isn’t this lovely?”

He smiled back at her. “Yeah, the forest’s not bad either.” The sunbeams caught tendrils of her red hair, making it look aflame, and the stirring got more insistent, harder to ignore. His long legs ate up the distance between them and he held out his arms, capturing her in a gentle embrace. The warm rays feel therapeutic on his tired skin, washing away the haunting memories of the previous night.

“Peter, I love you” she whispered, and his heart swelled into his throat, finally dissipating the cardboard sensation of his tongue and moving it into the muscle he was still so proud of.

He picked her up effortlessly and held her close. “Red…” he murmured into the crook of her shoulder, finding emotions return with a rush. “You’re everything.” Her pomegranate and cherries scent flicked greens in front of his eyes and he inhaled deeply, loving the sensations running through him.

He strode silently towards the edge of the clearing, against a growing mound of moss and grass pushed tight against an ancient oak. “My lady…” he plopped her down on her feet and kept walking her backwards until her back was against the tree. His lips captured hers and she felt the sharp fangs brush over her lower lip with a gasp. His large hand slid behind the nest of hair at the back of her head, fingers tangling in the curls, gripping gently. His other hand slid down over the curve of her hip as he leant her into the bend of the tree. The taste of her tongue on his stiffened his resolve and her eyes popped open. She could feel him painfully against her hip, insistent, relentless, and she felt herself mirrored in his urgency. He became lost in the moments, his world tunnelling to just her taste and her skin and her body pressed against him.

She broke the kiss just long enough to tease him. “Getting excited there, big guy?” A hand travelled down, brushing over the tight parts of his fabric, and he groaned softly at her long nails.

“No? Not at all.” His own fingers danced across her thighs and slipped under the hem of her skirt.

“No? Because it feels like it.” As he manipulated her dress, she gasped into his mouth, feeling his lips tantalisingly close to her own. She yelped, his fingers finding a particularly good spot.

“Shut up…” he laughed quietly, his fingers impatiently exploring under the elastic of her pink lace.

“Make me…” she managed, before he silenced her with a tongue-filled kiss. His stiffening crowded her palm.

They had become separated from the tree, and he now slammed her back roughly against the bark, urgent and hungry, as her free hand slipped beneath his jacket and across his bare abs. He found her wetness and she squeaked against him widening her legs and hooking one around his waist. Both hands now on his belt and tugging at it with desperation.

She leaned back, scraping her bare back against the bar. “Show me just how excited you are, Pete.” A command, not a request.

His breath came harder, eyes dark with desire. “You want to be reminded, do you?” He took over her hands and swiftly untucked the tucked in portion, letting the air find his flesh momentarily before leaning in and moving her pink elastic aside. He slips in with a small shove and they both yelp at the sensation. His left hand on the base of her back, holding her towards him, his other hand against the tree for support. Nothing else mattered, just this heavenly sensation.

“Getting… excited… myself” she panted, her upper back sliding against the bark and her hips pressed tightly against him, the angle ensuring her fleshy mound was pummelled in the most exquisite agony.

“Oh, is it too much for you honey? Can’t handle me?” he teased, slamming his hips upwards, driving her against the tree harder.

“Never… too much. I dare you. Do you… worst!” she managed, squeezing her eyes closed in a failing attempt to keep control of the situation. She felt like an unruly truck speeding towards a cliff.

“Oh sweetheart…” he groans, feeling her tighten. “This isn’t nearly my worst.” The desire to slam deeply into her depths overcoming him, the vice squeezing all logical thought from his mind. His heightened senses threatening to unravel his resistance.

“Promises, promises!” She shouted, losing her mind. Her tongue popped from her lips and her eyes rolled back, the gush of pleasure unstoppable now, her hands all over his abdomen, leaving scratches there.

Harder he slammed, a punishing rhythm that left deep, bloody welts all over her back and shoulders from the rough bark. “You’re… gonna… eat those words…!” He gripped her thigh and pulled her leg higher up, exposing her to his full force. Her tightening and flood made the rush towards the end inevitable, and he bit down on his lower lip to keep it inside for moments longer. He needed her to finish first.

Incomprehensible words, full of curses and filth, tumbled from her lips as she begged, pleaded, commanded, and screamed. Four more deep powerful thrusts and she slumped, limp and full.

The signal was his to take and his gripped her waist, nails digging into her hips and leaving tiny half-moons there. He slid her slickly over his aching hardness as he felt the finish line approach. “Tara… Tara…” he repeated, sucking against her neck as he felt the cum boil from the base to the tip, exploding wetly inside her. Her thick body in his hands, her legs pinched around his waist, her red hair scent around him. “I love you girl” he murmured, spurting to a finish.

She could only whimper, tears falling from her eyes. She was totally fucked out of existence and clung to his wide shoulders for support. His hands left her ass and she unravelled her ankles as he plopped her back down on the ground, but her knees refused to lock and he held her in place, chuckling, while tucking himself back in his jeans. “Ok lady. I’ve got you.”

Her eyes fluttered open and saw him looking down at her with concern. He moved his head to the side and saw the deep cuts on her back for the first time, then looked at his hands, realising they were damp with her blood.

“Fuck! Tara! You’re bleeding!” He was instantly shocked to ice and spun her around. Her upper back was a mess of bright red blood, staining her pale freckled skin. She looked around at him, a smirk on her face.

“Oh god T. Fuck. I’m… I’m so sorry” he mumbled, guilt-wracked.

“Yeah… yeah. Hazards of the work environment” she shrugs, winces, and turns around again. “I’ll wear these with pride…”

“I… I got so caught up in everything and… and I got so lost in it… I…” He stroked his bare chest, realising he wasn’t wearing a shirt to help with the wounds, and instead just smeared her blood all over his skin. This in turn made him shiver with arousal, which then swiftly turned into guilt and feelings of disgust. The turmoil made him shake.

“Pete, baby…” she reached over and stroked his cheek gently, searching his eyes earnestly. “It’s ok. Slow down. Don’t over think this. It’s exactly what I wanted.”

His Casio watch beeped softly, disturbing their gaze, and she looked down at his wrist. “Fuck! 1.30!” Her eyes wide. Without waiting for his response, she pulled her dress down, laced her fingers in his bloody ones, and pulled him back towards the bus. “We’re gonna be late, Wolf.”

He allowed her to pull him back through the woods, through the maze of trees, over the fallen trunk, and onto the path to the low wooden fence. The blood dried on her back but there was no hiding what had happened here. He glanced down and saw streaks of her own blood on him, making him smirk. “Gonna get an earful from the boys for this…”

“That’s if we make it on time. Otherwise, they’ll lynch you before you can show off your handiwork”.

His legs ate up the distance, but she still had to drag him up the hill towards the tour bus. His mind still almost totally focused on post-orgasmic bliss and the fantasy of blood.

A crowd swarmed around the silver and black bus as set-up and get-in for the show had already started. “Josh is gonna be pissed” he murmured, looking at the time. Kenny hung off the bus stairs, shouting orders at his guitar tech. “And that fucker is gonna take the whole entire piss outta me for this.” Kenny jumped up the stairs and disappeared inside before he spotted them.

Roadies ferried heavy equipment from the trailers and under-bus storage, and Tara and Peter slipped between the line to the bus entrance. They paused by the door.

“Pete” she said softly, looking at the ground. “Pete… thank you. For today. I don’t just mean the sex. Although that was amazing too. I mean… the forest. The walk. It was really nice.”

He smiled down and reached for a piece of red hair, tucking it behind her ear, his fingers grazing the skin on her cheek. His thumb traced over her lower lip for just a moment. “Red… thank you for letting me explore. For wanting to do that with me. I loved it. I just…” he paused, sighing. “I wish I hadn’t… hurt you.” He said, knowing part of this was a lie but that he should say it.

“If I didn’t want it I would have told you to stop. But I do need your help for a few minutes, the cuts are just out of reach.”

He nodded, leaning down and kissing her forehead. “Alright honey. Go lie on your stomach on my bed and I’ll get you cleaned up. Let’s brave the bullshit.”

*********************************

Chapter Text

BLACK NUMBER ONE

“Guy is three hours late and then he forgets to switch his phone off! You asshole. Is that ya mothah?” followed by peals of laughter from the interviewer and his assistant, who scrambles to switch off the cell phone’s annoying chiming. Tara smiled to herself as she scrubbed the pots in the small kitchen, piling the dish rack high with plates. She could see in her mind’s eye his little cheeky smirk, the sparkle in his eye, and the shaking crossed-at-the-knee leg. Bill coughed loudly, apologetically, and returned to behind the camera only to be repeatedly berated again. “Now ask me a single answer question, ya hippie…”

The interview lasted another hour, and Tara tried to keep out of the way, tidying the kitchen and heading upstairs to check on Nettie. Pete continued his libations while Bill asked increasingly introspective questions, allowing the bassist to ramble and wander around the trees, capturing everything on film. By the time he was finished, Pete was exhausted and a little drunk, and Tara returned down the crypt-keeper stairs to find him sat on the small couch, pouring over the well-thumbed textbooks he loved so much.

“Learn anything new this time around?” She asked, kicking the door shut with her foot and padding through the lounge to the kitchen beyond.

He looked up, capturing her in his magnetic blue-hazel gaze and she felt the world fall away from her feet. He’d obviously paused in getting undressed from his interview outfit, the button-down khaki shirt half open at his spreading belly, the belt missing from his jeans. His khaki army cap discarded, showing off the slightly curly, browning hair tied back in a messy ponytail. He blinked, and the spell was broken.

“Got somethin’ for me, T?” He nodded at her hands, and she remembered the pot the moment before it burnt through the dish towel she was holding it with.

“Oh, your mom made stew. Wouldn’t let me leave until I took some.” Tara smiled and set the pot down on the countertop, returning to the couch. He looked up at her with ridiculous puppy-dog eyes and pulled her close. His large hand wrapping around the back of her bare thigh, exposed by her grey and green cotton shorts, made her squeak. He growled at the noise.

“Stew huh. Got something else? I’m in the mind for something sweet. Like April wine.” He slid his palm upwards and grasped her growing cheeks, kneading gently. “C’mere.”

He pressed his face into her V, her fabric shorts a thin layer between them, and inhaled deeply, the hem of her oversized tee tickling his forehead. He rolled his eyes back and uttered another deep guttural growl. He always got like this after intense interviews. It was like a switch got flipped. Her hands pulled through his hair, found his hair tie, and slid it downwards. He always had such thick hair.

“Roots are showing, honey.”

“Better dye ‘em black” he mumbled, before nuzzling the hem of her shorts with his nose and finding the join of her hips.

*********************************

The cooling stew forgotten on the countertop drew the attention of Grizzy and Weena, who could smell the beef from their spots under the bed. Meanwhile, steam drifted from the carefully crafted shower room tucked in the back of the apartment. Tara had successfully distracted him for long enough to bundle him into the shower to prepare for the hair dye he so desperately needed. A natural hazel head and hairy, the roots grew at an exceptional rate and the autumn show season was barrelling up quickly.

She shut the water off and shooed him out of the walk-in shower cubicle, admiring his thick waist and long legs. He grabbed the white and green striped towel from the rail and with a swift movement wrapped it around his hips. A quick glance in the mirror reminded him of times past, etched all over his arms, and he looked away, back to her naked and damp form stepping over the threshold of the shower. The soft heart inside quickly pulsed a hardening in other areas. She shook her red hair out, splattering him with vanilla-scented water, and she caught his eye. “Hand me my towel, honey.” Commanded, he picked her purple towel from the same rail and reluctantly handed her the covering.

She dug through the drawers in the sink and grabbed his dye, the comb, and gloves. Her face was all business, at odds to the heat rising in his own body. He stood watching her, dumbly, resisting the urge to wrap her in his own towel and pull her onto the bed. She stood back up, saw the look in his eyes, and smirked. “Come on, big man. Let’s have ya.”

He sat obediently on the chair she’d prepared, allowing her to work. Her gloved fingers pulled gently through his long locks, and he closed his eyes at the slight tugging. She massaged his scalp, squeezing more black dye onto the roots and pulling the cream through to the ends of his hair, before plaiting the sections. Her fingers on his scalp caused the heat he was trying so hard to ignore to rise up again, and when she stood between his legs to get to his forelocks, bare thighs warm against his own, he nearly lost his mind.

“Tara…” he moaned, keeping his eyes shut, but feeling the stiff evidence of his arousal poke through the gap in his towel.

“Yeah honey?” her soft voice so close. Her warmth. Her soft skin…

“T…” he opened his eyes and was confronted with a face full of cleavage, pushed together by her tightly-wrapped black towel. “Fuck woman…” He couldn’t stop his betraying hands as they reached up and yanked the towel down. Her growing body spilled out in front of him and he groaned as she squeaked.

“Peter what the f-“ but she was cut off in her protestations by his mouth, sealing itself on her pink tips, her hands still in his black dyed hair. His own hands slid around to her backside and he pulled, making her straddle him on the chair. She was now very aware of his intensity, and angled herself so he slid between her folds. “Ohhh. Oh god…”

He looked up at her, long lashes encircling his blue eyes, and she felt her heart swell into her throat. Suddenly, he filled her, and her head tilted back involuntarily. Two big hands raised her, helping her, and the dye, the towels, and the task were forgotten.

He growled, standing abruptly and walking her to the countertop, planting her heavily on the marble. Without breaking their join, he kept the pace up, finding her neck at the same time. Dye wiped all over her cheek and she didn’t care, feeling instead his thick girth splitting her open and his teeth grazing against her vein. She reached out to steady herself on the counter, and banged up against the stew pot heavily.

“Ahh Pete!” She mumbled, and he just growled, sinking his teeth deeper into her neck, and his hips pulsing into her.

“Yeah, T?” He lapped at the wound he’d made, before grabbing her again and pulling her to him, standing. She wrapped her legs around him as he walked back to the bed. “Got something to say, honey?” That cheeky smirk nearly undid her right then, but instead he knelt on the bed, placed her gently on her back, and lent over her, dye dripping on the sheets.

“N…no. Nothing… comes to mind…” she murmured, and he was suddenly empty of her, sliding down her body and kissing her belly.

“I said I wanted something sweet…” he said between kisses, and her hands now wrapped in his hair again, the transparent gloves smeared with dye. “Mmm yes baby. Pull me there…” and she tugged left, getting him to the right spots. His waist-length hair draped all over her thighs, leaving black streaks on her skin.

With a deep growl that she felt more than heard, he sucked down on her growing bud, flicking and licking and driving her with maddening consistency to her own oblivion. Her hands left the creamy scalp and instead clutched at the sheets, trying to find some anchor before the world became white with delicious agony. The gloves slid off her hands and she clawed at the sheets with her fingertips. "Fuck. FUCK! Fuck…” she repeated and suddenly the suction stopped.

“Something the matter, T?” She looked down at him and he was wearing that lopsided smirk but his eyes were serious, boring into her soul.

“If you don’t get back there right now I’ll harm you…” the words coming out in a strangled tumble. He chuckled and lapped a line along her slit, until he found the area they both knew would end her suffering. With his long index finger, he slid inside her and rubbed, the duality of suction and friction causing a tidal wave of emotion, sensation, reaction. “Nnnnnnoooooohhhh godddd….”

He chuckled again, never leaving that slow and steady lap-and-suck, working his finger against her, tickling her and pressing her into a tight coil that would soon snap in a torrent. Her hands left the sheets and with a squeal of delight, she filled his awaiting mouth with her enjoyment, and grabbed at his hair, holding him there. Filthy words fell from her mouth as she finished in a messy, loud, throbbing shake. He waited for her breathing to return to normal and the final spasms to leave her body, before sitting back slightly and licking his lips.

“Sacre bleu.”

He crawled back up her body and without guidance or request, he slid himself deeply inside her, and pressed his face in the crook of her neck. Two slow, but hard, thrusts and she felt him stiffen, silently, as he emptied at her very limits. He breathed against her neck in gasps, his abs tight and his legs shaking. “So… so tight…” he whispered. “Sorry…”

She smiled up at him, and then saw the streaks all over his face. “Uhh Pete…?” He opened his eyes and looked at her, sudden concern flicking through his eyes and knitting his eyebrows together. She was as stained and streaked as he was.

“Clean up on Aisle 6…” they said together.

*********************************

Chapter Text

Sunset Strip

Pin pricks of light evaded the darkened, tinted, slightly purple lens and drifted past long lashes and speared the black pupils, straight into the dehydrated, slowly rotting mind of Kenneth Shaun Hickey. He kicked his boots against the concrete bollard, waiting for the queue of people to vacate the area, considering whether to lie back and let the soil of the planter behind him envelop him into the earth, lean forward and expel the last three meals all over the pavement, or simply crumble to dust in front of the swaying palm trees. The sun was warm, apparently, but his blood was ice and fire combined into one. Sweat beaded down his forehead. Slimy, silky, sheen of shame.

An elderly matriarch perched next to him. She was talking. To him? Yes. Fuck. To him. He moved to take his glasses off and thought better of it at the last moment.

“Got the time?”

“Sorry doll I’m deaf in that ear. What can I help you with?”

It was partly true. The ringing was due to Josh’s PA pointed right at him most nights, and the kick drum blasting apart his hearing. But the amount of coke he had consumed last night hadn’t helped matters.

“Got the time? This queue is getting in the way of my bridge club.”

He extended his arm, the leather jacket sliding up his wrist, and he turned his arm towards his face. Focusing on the analogue watch was an impossibility but, somehow, he made it work.

“Twenty past ten.” Jesus Christ, it’s practically still nighttime. Had he slept? Was this Sunday or Monday?

“Thanks. I’m gonna skip. Got social dates to get to! Have a good Sunday, mister.”

She stood up creakingly and hobbled on her way, the linen slip of her skirt exposing thickening ankles. Kenny watched her go, his mind flicking to his own future. Would he ever live to see Bonnie get to that age? Would they ever need nursing care in their old age? Would he ever reach 50? Would he ever see tomorrow? What was Bonnie doing right now…

He kicked his boots again, his palms gripping the side of the concrete planter. The urge to throw up was being quickly supplanted by a developing need to piss. Two more people in front of him in the queue for the payphone stood up and left, shooting death glares at the yuppie in the booth who was oblivious or wilfully ignorant to the ongoing hatred on the other side of the plexiglass. Suddenly Kenny was second in line. He had to think hard about what to say now. He'd figured it would just pop into his head. As was often the case. He had an ingrained knack of being able to say the right thing at the right time, under pressure, much like his tall bandmate. But right now, the brain was a contracting tangle of dehydrated flesh and sinew, and he was coming up empty.

Bonnie I’m sorry.

Bonnie I never meant it.

You’re a bitch and I don’t deserve you.

I love you, take me back.

Your hair looks better blonde.

Tattoo me with your blood.

What the fuck do you say to a woman who’s just caught you with your hand in the cookie jar? Who has now threatened to castrate you if you set foot back in Brooklyn?

He pressed his thumbs under the glasses and into the sockets of his eyes, reassuring himself he was still in possession of the orbs. White stars flicked in the dark space between mind and reality, and he felt the nausea well up again. He belched, loudly, and felt his lower lip tremble with saliva. There was an 8-ball waiting for him on the bus, just round the corner, and the growing need to piss briefly made him reconsider this innocuous queue.

“Fuck this for a game of soldiers.” A bright British accent next to him filtered through his contorting mind and a shadow passed over him. His queue companion, the final one between he and the plexiglass purveyor of prattling, had stood up and was walking away.

That’s it, Hickey. This is it.

He scooted along the wall and fixed to end the yuppie’s reign of nuisance on the receiver. The man was in a suit. Beige, pale, contrasting with his brown slicked-back hair, large prominent nose, and upward swept lips. He was midsentence when Kenny pressed his face to the glass. He rarely had the chance to make use of his height. Given his career, and his chosen work colleagues, he was often considered “the short one”. Not in this moment. His six-foot stature towered over the Los Angeles sycophant, a thin layer of transparent glass separating the clearly aggravated leather-clad guitarist from a man facing certain punishment. The man stopped, mouth forming a long-forgotten word, eyes wide and fixed on Kenny’s sharp teeth and raised hands.

“Get off. The phone.”

The man swallowed and hung up clumsily, taking four attempts to hook the receiver back onto the cradle, not breaking eye contact, and backed out of the bi-fold doors.

Kenny pulled down on the sides of his close-fitting jacket and mumbled to himself. “Thank you.” He pushed back into the booth, making the “I’m watching you” sign between his eyes and the man’s, who now turned and walked at a sharp pace down the Strip.

Kenny fished in his black jeans. Fuck he needed to wash these. And everything else. They hadn’t managed to find a laundrette for the last two weeks and the bus was starting to hum by itself. He dragged out the contents of his back pocket, pulling out three receipts, coins, a few bills, and the gold foil of the corner of a condom packet, the contents having been long discarded. His blood iced over, and he swallowed, remembering what he was here for. Who he was here for.

He found the change and lined it up on the payphone top. Dialling her number. The number he had memorised the second time they’d ever met.

The mechanical tone, a Morse code for Get Fucked, bleeped through his mind and with every iteration his headache squeezed tighter.

“Hello.”

Not a question. Fuck does she know it’s me?

“Bon.”

“Fuck off Jack. What do you want.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, leaning his head against the glass, holding the phone to his ear with a palm that felt too heavy, too sticky.

“Baby I’m-“

“If the word sorry comes out your mouth again I’m gonna fill it with sand. From Brighton beach. With the needles.”

In spite of himself the corners of his mouth pulled up. “-I’m a jackass. Full and decadent and splayed out beneath you. Step on my wings. Play with my oil-fed and discarded heart. Bon you own me. I am nothing without you.”

Soft breathing down the phone, her hair rustled against the mouthpiece as she switched ears. He could see it. Soft and bouncy curls dyed yellow gold.

“Don’t you use that fucking sweet talk on me, mister.” But her voice had gone raspy.

“I don’t use these words lightly.” The black pitch clawed his ankles, and he kicked it away with his unlaced boot. “There is nothing in this world I’d rather do than die with you.” Under brown unbrushed hair, under the black-purple tinted lenses, a damp cheek belied his emotions. “Bon. My flame. My girl.”

She scoffed. “Your girl? Not the redhead from Sarasota?”

Ice dropped from his throat to his stomach, and he withheld the need to evacuate right there. “No. Baby no. Baby it’s… I get too high. I do too much. I’m a fucking drunk. I… I need…” Help. He wanted to say help. But he couldn’t make his tongue form the words.

“Yeah Jack I fucking know. It’s never enough. With all of you. It’s never enough.”

The beeping indicated his moments of connection were swiftly draining and he dropped another quarter in the sinkhole. A few more moments.

“Baby I’m home in two weeks. Please let’s talk about it then. Please don’t cut me out.”

She scoffed again, and the rustling indicated she was pacing. He could see her. The long corridor connecting the kitchen to the lounge, hardwood floors and a runner carpet that he’d skidded to a halt on fifteen times over the years. He could see her looking at her reflection in the pale wood frame mirror, hanging next to the wired phone on the wall. He could see her downturned eyes blaze with anger, resentment, and sadness.

“Bonnie…? Bonnie Alicia Weiss.” The full name always got one of two reactions. A slammed phone, a thrown bottle, a closed door. Or –

“Kenneth Shaun Hickey…” A soft mumble in return. She cradled the phone close, breathing into it. “I fucking hate to love you.”

His lips turned up at the corners. Gotcha. “Yeah. I know. I hate me too.” And every syllable in that was true.

The woman of Sarasota. He wasn’t the only one entranced by her. She had carried with her a blizzard, seductive and free with her love. Within an hour he was in the company of angels and demons and out of control of his limbs and atrophying in the arms of death. She had climbed aboard and taken what she wanted. Unfortunately, so had a camera. Through some ways that were still unclear, Bonnie had seen the resulting massacre. He had awoken the following mid-morning without his credit card and his favourite tee shirt, lying in a drying puddle of who the fuck knows what, and a headache that could have crushed northern Europe in the dark ages. He hadn’t made it to the on-board toilet and had instead thrown up into the sink opposite his bunk, more from despair than the hangover, while the bus rolled the million miles to Los Angeles, leaving his card, his dignity, his shirt, and self-respect back on the Keys.

The words tumbled from his lips, turning hers up into a soft smirk, causing her to twirl her blonde hair around her finger, a flush burgeoning on her cheeks. His voice dropped low, promises and acquiescence coming thick and fast in the tone she loved. The phone beeped again, signalling its unending hunger for metal, and he touched the top of the phone booth. Fuck! He patted the back pocket. Nothing. Jacket? Nothing!

“Fuck. Fuck. Bon I’m out… fuck!”

“Ah! Shit! Fuck okay! Call me from the venue!”

“Okay okay! I lo-“

The line went dead. Always dead. Only the dead know Brooklyn.

Chapter Text

Autumn rays bathed her bare back in golden stripes, the net curtain obscuring hard lines. Sounds of Brooklyn suburbs filtered through, but the most important sound was sleeping just a few feet to the left. With long, aching arms, he encircled the bundle and felt with his long fingers until they twined together under a shock of red-brown feather-soft hair. Snuffles and grumbles but the bundle did not wake. With his deepest baritone, a note not recorded hence, he began to hum. The snuffling ceased, and into his arms the squirming became asleep once more. He walked over the window, rocking in the time-honoured manner of the newly parented, and peered out onto the street. A noise drew his gaze downward and he was met with blue-hazel eyes framed by black lashes, and a frowning forehead. The intensity of her quiet intensity removed his breath from his lungs momentarily. 

“Morning, Victoria Rose.”

Squealing brakes and a sudden dead stop threw the entire rack of cabs and equipment from the back to the front, the shared trunk adorned with stickers and chalk marks and scuffs from a million tour dates rolling neatly down Bunk Alley and resting at the bus stairs. Thankfully all resting bodies slept with their feet to the front and their necks to the back, for just this kind of incident. Pete sat bolt upright, smartly smacking his head on the roof above with a loud yell. As the bump formed, the dream faded, and what was left was a cold, black tendril wrapping itself around his heart.

*********************************

The rehearsal rooms gleamed with white stucco plaster and polished wooden floors. Uninsulated and dark, lit only by swinging yellowing lightbulbs on bare cords. Cabs and amps, wires and stands, perfect for the Brooklyn boot boys. Mark ambled from the barebones kitchen to the worn-out lounge and back, carrying mugs of coffee and whiskey and a jar of peanut butter for the various requests, accompanied by a sigh and grunt every time he had to get up and redo the action.

All legs and arms, overly long for this damned sofa. Pete sat with his head in his hands, listening to the other three quarrel about levels on the backing track. He knew what he wanted. He could hear it in his head. Fuck, he tried everything to STOP hearing it in his head. But for some godforsaken reason, this time Josh couldn’t put his ideas into notes. It was taking longer and longer to get things going these days.

“Would you just fucking LISTEN for a minute? Christ!” Kenny flopped back on the worn grey-blue fabric, and a puff of dust floated behind him. “It doesn’t go dooh-do-do it’s fucking doh-doh-doooh and you fucking KNOW it!”

Back and forth until his eyes bled. Without warning, Pete unfolded himself from the lumpy sofa and followed Mark on one of his return trips to the kitchen. At the stainless-steel sink, he considered pouring himself a glass of water and instead his hand gripped the whiskey bottle. In the third room down the corridor Kenny had picked up the 12-string Alembic and was strumming something that was… almost right. It tickled the parts of his brain that needed stimulation but there was something missing. Fuck! Torture!

Mark noticed the internal conflict and placed a brotherly hand on his shoulder. “It’ll come, man. Give it time.”

“Ain’t got time, brother. Time is fucken money.” The rumble from his chest as he downed a large gulp of fire water.

Mark left the kitchen, leaving the giant bent over the whiskey bottle, alone. Outside, a cricket chirped loudly, attempting to make contact in the crowded house. For a time, the noise in his head ceased. The whiskey burned all the way down, and he cleared his throat three times, making a face at the bottle, before stomping back through the house with the bottle and a mug in hand. He paused at the recommissioned bedroom – the mic stood in the middle of the floor, two cabs and amps balanced on top of each other, and his bass perched on the stand to the left. The curtain-less window sent black cascading into the room, and he switched off the main light to the room, leaving the small lamp balanced on the cab to bathe the room in pastel orange. Much better. Two more steps and he added the now half-empty bottle with his white and blue mug to the lamp tableaux on the cab, before picking up the bass.

Everything faded away. The bickering in the adjoining lounge. The money. The relationships. His incessant itching nose. Everything. Just the fat strings and his long fingers. He muddled through some Sabbath riffs, mutilating the Beatles backwards, and strummed something working its way through his frontal cortex.

“I don’t feel anything.”

A seventh. A perfect fifth. Change the tempo here. Singing sweetly from falsetto to the depths of hell in two octaves lower. In the lounge, the bickering turned into a shouting match, but in here, in the orange glow, it didn’t matter.

“If you give an inch, will they take a mile.”

Four chord blues wouldn’t cut it here. Something deeper. With the D string.

It must have been another half hour because the bottle swiftly turned from shots to dregs, and finally Kenny kicked his way into the room, shouting something about payment for screenwriting. Glass shattered at Peter’s feet as the tumbler Kenny was drinking from cascaded corona beer all over his trousers.

“THE FUCK?” The bubble burst, the muse dissipated, and the bass dropped from his fingers.

“What the hell, Pete? What is this shit? Are we recording or what? Time is money, dick!”

Pete stood up so quickly the wooden chair flipped back and hit the cab, his mug toppling forward and spilling whiskey and porcelain all over the already-stained floorboards.

“Listen, numb nuts, we are here on my fucking watch. Not yours. You want a fucking album? You gotta let me fucking THINK, man.”

“Well think on your own time. Some of us have kids and wives to get home to.”

He turned on his heels, knowing that would strike a nerve, and slammed the door shut.

Silence. The hum of the open bass strings to fill his mind. Fuck this entire shit. He pressed record on the small tape player next to him and picked up the bass. What came out was the most garbled, drunken, bullshit excuse for a phrase ever known to man. Johnny would later describe it to Revolver. “That first take for Anaesthesia was the ugliest he’s ever done. Then he took a moment and sat in front of one of the cabs and blasted it out, and that’s what we got at the end of the song”.

Peter slurred his way through the first monstrosity of the take. Stepping on the shattered porcelain and mauling the lines into the mic. Josh stepped into the room and took his best friend’s bass from him, whispering a few words into the drunken giant’s ear. After an hour walking in the damp moonlight, listening to the crickets and kicking the roots of a tree, Peter made his way back into the house. The second room along the corridor was smaller, darker, and sparsely furnished. A large Lecorissate (Buick Lacrosse) cab perched in the corner, with a swivel chair next to it. He grabbed his Warlock bass and plugged it in, placing the earphones over one ear to hear the backing track.

“Emotionally Stunned.

In defence, I’m numb.

I’d rather not care,

Than to be aware.

Be scared.

I don’t need love.

Are a thousand tears worth a single smile?

When you give an inch, will they take a mile?

Longing for the past, but dreading the future

If not being used, well then, you’re a user.

And a loser.

Ah.”

A breath. The desire to end the bass’ life across the cab was overwhelming, as was the necessity for blood and fire. Instead, he persevered.

“World renowned failure at both death and life.

Given nothingness, purgatory blight.

To run and hide, a cowardly procedure.

Options exhausted, except for anaesthesia.

Anesthesia.

Ah.”

A pain greater than a heart attack lifted from his gut to his brain and he strummed the strings until his fingers bled.

“I don’t feel anything.

Anything.

Anything.”

The pain broke his voice, and the hearts of the men gathered at the door in quiet and darkness. That’s it. That’s the one.

*********************************