Authors: Jocelynn Drake
|0.6-The Asylum Interviews: Trixie|
THE ASYLUM INTERVIEWS: TRIXIE
An Asylum Tales Short Story
his woman could kiss. Her lips were lush pillows and the things she could do with her tongue made my toes curl. Even the nip of her fangs made the blood roar in my ears. I would have paid anything at that moment to be in a bedroom rather than a cramped, stuffy coat closet.
I reluctantly pulled away from Jo after I hit my head on the closet rod for the fourth time. Her lean body was molded against mine as I pressed her against the back wall. She shifted, rubbing her pelvis against my groin. My eyes rolled back into my head as a fresh wave of pleasure/pain swept through my body, briefly wiping away the thought that had me pulling away from her in the first place.
“Don’t stop, Gage,” she murmured. Her hand slipped up from my shoulder to cup the back of my head. As she tried to pull me back down, I released her ass and slammed my right hand against the wall beside her head, bracing myself so that she couldn’t recapture my mouth.
“If we keep going, you’re going to find your pants around your ankles in another minute,” I threatened through clenched teeth. On second thought, it wouldn’t take as long as another minute.
“Mmmm . . . a quickie.” Her voice was a delicious purr as she ground her body against mine.
“Jo, sweetheart, there’s no such thing as a quickie between us.”
Why the hell did we stop dating?
With her sweet body pressed against me, her hands trailing over my chest and down to my ass, I really couldn’t think of the answer to that question. Sex with Jo had always been surface-of-the-sun hot and we rarely argued. She also didn’t ask a lot of questions, which was perfect with me. So she was a blood-sucking predator. I was a former warlock-in-training. No one was perfect.
Jo’s hands stopped their roaming and I could feel her sigh. “True. And we’re going on soon. The guys wouldn’t appreciate it if I held them up.”
That would be the reason why we split. The band—Dead Playthings—had gotten popular and they started traveling farther and farther away for gigs. Jo and I had started seeing less of each other and neither one of us had been so enamored that we felt the need to try to make a long-distance relationship work. So with a hug and a wish of good luck, we had gone our separate ways roughly two years ago.
“Besides, I thought this was just a quick ‘hello.’ Nothing complicated,” I said.
Jo gave a little snort. “Since when has sex between us been complicated?”
“No hard feelings?”
I leered at her, knowing she could see it despite the fact that it was pitch-black in that tiny closet. Her excellent night vision had come in handy on more than one occasion. I felt her hand creep down my chest to slide between where our groins were pressed together. Her long fingers slipped along my rock-hard dick, squeezing a groan from my throat.
“Well, I don’t mind a few hard feelings,” she said with a chuckle.
“You’ve got them.” I leaned forward to capture her mouth again, when someone knocked on the door. I tensed, waiting for the door to be jerked open and bright light to wash over us, but it never happened.
“Jo, we go on in ten,” announced a deep voice. I thought it was Royce, the lead singer, but I couldn’t be sure. I hadn’t talked to the man in more than two years, but if it was him, I had a fresh reason not to like him.
“Fuck,” we grumbled in unison.
“Jinx! You owe me a pint,” Jo giggled.
“Ha. Ha. We better get going.”
Jo grabbed my shirt, keeping me from pulling away from her. “Are you sticking around for the show? We could talk afterward.”
I grinned, grabbing her ass again. “I’m all for that.”
“No, I mean talk-talk, not talk-fuck.”
I stiffened, squinting in the darkness as I tried to see her face. “Is something wrong?”
“No! Why does something have to be wrong for me to want to talk to you? We talked while we were dating. Besides, we’ve hardly talked in two years. I thought we could catch up.”
I stared at her for a couple seconds, wishing I could see her expression but it was lost in the blackness of the closet. “That’s fine. I’ve got a friend here with me. I’ll introduce you.”
“Sounds good. Now, get out of here. I’ve got to fix my makeup,” she said, pushing me away from her and toward the door.
I stepped out of the closet, squinting against the bright light. Her band mates glanced up at me for only a second before returning their attention elsewhere. I turned and gave her one last kiss before heading out of the backstage area to the front of the venue. Pausing before a mirror for a second, I wiped off the last remnants of her lipstick and straightened my clothes. Luckily, my current hairstyle was already short and messy. There wasn’t much I could do about the bulge in my pants, but that would pass.
Bronx was still sitting at the high-top table we had procured before someone had come out to fetch me. The troll gave a knowing little smirk and raised his glass to me as I approached like some conquering hero. I shook my head at my coworker and friend, but I couldn’t wipe the stupid grin off my face to save my soul. But then, Jo always had had a way of putting the grin on my face.
“I’m guessing it went well,” Bronx asked as I slid into the chair next to him and took a drink of the beer I had ordered before disappearing backstage.
“She missed you?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” I had no delusions about my former relationship with Jo. When we had been dating, we were little more than fuck buddies. We would attend parties and concerts together, go out drinking, and screw like it was our last day on Earth. But there had never been a deep emotional attachment. We didn’t talk about our pasts and we really didn’t introduce each other to many of our other friends. Sometimes we would get together and just watch some bad movies on TV, but she never slept over. In short, no drama and no complications. There had been a couple times when I thought we could have pushed forward into something more, but neither one of us had ever shown an inclination to do so.
I fought back a relieved sigh that had nothing to do with Jo and everything to do with being away from the shop and no needle in my hand. With fall settling around us and nights sinking in earlier, I was able to close the shop a little early so that Bronx could accompany me to the Dead Playthings show. I was more than happy to see my old girlfriend, but I had also wanted backup in case things didn’t go so well. Bronx didn’t mind attending the concert since we both needed a break.
Bronx had started at Asylum more than eighteen months ago and business had exploded at the shop. Not only was I now opening up the parlor earlier in the day, but we were both taking appointments on Sundays and Mondays when the shop was usually closed just so that we could keep up with the demand. When Jo emailed me about the concert, I quickly announced that we would be closing early this Saturday. After a year of constant busy insanity, we needed a break.
The opening band had already played and their equipment was being replaced with the instruments for the Dead Playthings. The audience milled around an open floor directly in front of the stage, while the sides and back of the room were lined with high-top tables. Jo was nice enough to have a table saved for us as well as tickets reserved at the front box office. Located on the north side of Low Town, Boggart’s offered mostly rock bands and some other eclectic sounds. The place was extremely popular, drawing a lot of big-name bands. Of course, it didn’t hurt that Boggart’s sat just a few blocks from the local university.
Sitting there, nursing my beer, I waved to a few familiar faces while we waited for Jo’s band to come on. I was even pleased to see a couple people recognize and wave to Bronx. Some of my regulars were a little surprised when they saw the announcement that I had hired a troll as a tattoo artist, but for the most part, he had been welcomed with open arms by my friends and acquaintances. Bronx appeared to be at ease with the motley crew. My life was settling into a nice routine, other than the hectic demand for potions and tattoos.
The lights dimmed while the spotlights on the stage flared to life as the band walked out and picked up their instruments. The members of the band hadn’t changed since I had last seen them, their bickering hadn’t broken them apart as I had expected. I had always thought Royce would eventually stalk off to do some solo thing—apparently there was a little common sense in the man’s seemingly hollow head.
“The guitarist or the drummer?” Bronx demanded, leaning close to me so he could be heard over the scream of the opening guitar riff and the pounding beat of the drums. Dead Playthings danced between punk rock and Goth with an industrial edge. They didn’t play quiet music and didn’t believe in ballads without at least a little screaming.
My eyes skimmed over the drummer, her hair flying through the air as she moved her head in time with the music. I had never talked much to Daisy. She was always such a fierce, intense person, which I guess made drums a great outlet for her.
My attention then moved to Jo. She was a few inches shorter than me with short black hair streaked with dark red. Her pale skin almost glowed under the bright lights, accentuating her dark eye make-up and dark red lips. She wore ripped skin-tight jeans and a black leather vest. Her delicate hands danced over the red Gibson SG that was strapped to her body. It wasn’t her favorite guitar. That was a pale blue Ibanez hollowbody. On the few times I had watched movies over at her place, she would lounge on the couch, cradling it against her body, mindlessly plucking at it while watching TV. The Ibanez wasn’t worth as much as the Gibson but I got the impression that it held some kind of sentimental value.
“I gather that it’s the guitarist,” Bronx drawled, snapping my gaze back to him. “You’ve been staring at her for the past several minutes.”