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He stroked himself slowly through his half-opened jeans. His gestures were painfully
slow. My skin prickled, as though he was touching me himself. Everything felt heavy,
drawn out. It was though I could feel my blood racing through my limbs, pulsing steady
and light-filled. It was impossible that any touch could cure this. It felt like a
sickness, the first stages of fever when lights hold a halo and every nerve is raw.
I kept staring at him, steadily, unable to stop. His hand sped up ever so slightly,
and with a long sigh, he stopped and looked at me. “You’re still nervous. After all
this time.”

I tried to shake words into my mouth from somewhere, anywhere. “I’m…not…I’m a bad
top.”

“Who told you that?” His eyes glittered in the half-light of the room.

“I just know it.” I wrapped my arms around myself. “It started well, but then…I don’t
know…”

Tristan smiled, a crazy kind of smile, that managed to both reassure and alarm all
at once. “That’s not you, love. That’s them. A top needs a bottom. It’s not a matter
of just lying there, it is trust. Submission. Willingness to be led. Signals exchanged
to help you do that. Otherwise…,” he trailed off, “…it’s just confusion. Only signaling
that someone doesn’t know how to play.” He smiled again, and this time it felt like
a punch to the gut. “But I know how…to play. So. Let’s play.”

My eyes shut tightly. I couldn’t feel this and see at the same time. Everything hurt,
felt hot and swollen. It didn’t seem possible that anything we could do would make
it better. I found myself approaching him, in a daze. I wanted to touch him, feel
the silky hardness of him under my fingers, watch him come apart.

“That’s it love. Come closer. You need this. Something else within you. Watch it happen.”
He pulled at the cuffs again. “I can’t move. I won’t move. Now—think about what you
want. Let go.” He nodded his head to the left. “The minibar is there, with my key.
It’s a choice, like anything. Go over there, pull out something you want. Remember
how to choose. Remember how to enjoy it. I’m waiting.” And he stopped his hand, squeezing
at the base of his cock, stopping the feeling as I watched. “Go on.” His voice was
low, encouraging but soft, like he wanted to be touched, wanted something else. I
walked over to the minibar, and pulled out a half bottle of Champagne, then thought
for a moment, and added a small bottle of Remy Martin. I held them aloft, like some
prize. His face didn’t change expression. “You chose. Now take.” His dark eyes remained
fixed on mine. “Take what you want. It’s that easy.”

I looked at him, laid out there, a fine sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. I
could smell him, sweet and piercing, that strange smell of a man aroused beyond the
point where he could go back, a wet, cold, white smell, mixed with his sweat, the
warmth of his skin under his leather jacket, I closed my eyes tight again. It hurt.
This painful desire, with no clear steps to relief, and the overwhelming feeling that
relief was actually the last thing I wanted. I unscrewed the top of the tiny frosted
dark green glass cognac bottle, and upended it, feeling the burning pour down my throat,
burning its way into my chest, offering another pain that was a welcome change from
the pain under my skin. His voice came again, teasing, whispering, slow. “What if
what you want is what I want as well?” He breathed in. “What if I know how to let
you?’“ He shut his eyes again. “Come on.” He pulled at the metal bracelet, then let
his arm go slack. “I trust you. You’ll know how to treat me.”

I stared at him.

“Please,” he murmured, “I’ve been waiting for you.” And that undid me. If he needed
it, then I could admit to the desperation I felt, the heat. Maybe it would be different.
I shook off the fear, and the bad memories of the last time I had the upper hand.
I wanted it. Wanted him. And he lay there, his eyes closed, waiting. Mine. I ran my
hands over my breasts. It was though everything was hot current, the shock at the
sudden rush of feeling almost too much. I could even not touch him if I didn’t want
to.

But I did want to. So badly. I needed to feel his warm skin on mine, tease the hair
on his belly, turn it into torture for him, the way it was so often for me, when I
saw him, and all I wanted I couldn’t have. Again.

“Come on. Please.” That voice, dark and pleading, hinting at desires I barely admitted
to myself. I was scared, so scared. I knew all too well what it felt like to be disappointed.
I didn’t want to risk it. My mind scrambled for a way to play it safe.

“Don’t.” That voice of his, again, slowing down the air around us. Like he knew. “I’ll
help. Let me help. Haven’t I always helped?”

He let his hand fall away. His cock jutted out, hard and swollen. There was a glint
of smooth metal at the base. “Take what you want. Tell me what to do. I won’t move.”

* * *

I missed my plane.

chapter seventeen

Houston to Dallas

We stumbled out of the hotel the next day fairly early for the four hour drive to
Dallas. I could only guess, but I had a feeling I finally looked the part. Virtually
no sleep, sunglasses to cover up that fact and ease the pain of bright lights. Add
to that a ripped leather jacket, high heeled boots, and a floppy brimmed black hat
to hide my face from the sun and the fans, coupled with the fact I could barely walk.
It felt like every muscle in my body had been pushed to the breaking point. I did
not care. Remembering how I got this way kept me smiling mysteriously at everything
and nothing, an occasional blush leaving me warm and slightly embarrassed. Tristan
had his usual leather jacket and shades, the usual tight jeans, and a smirk that never
left his face as he casually signed a few autographs. AC was waiting by the limousine,
signing a few autographs of his own. When he caught sight of us, he let out a howl.
The fan standing next to him jumped back and nearly knocked over three of the girls
waiting their turn. Tristan just turned towards him, the smirk firmly in place. AC
signed their autographs quickly, and advanced towards me, extending his arm. “Does
Madam require assistance?”

My mouth twisted into a tight smile. “Madam requires you to fuck off.” But I took
his arm, and we strolled over to the limousine, Tristan following closely behind,
signing a few more autographs. The driver helped the doorman add our bags to the trunk,
and Tristan and AC turned to wave to the crowd before they got into the car. I turned
with them, and stood there as the cameras went off. Then Tristan dove in, pulling
me with him, and AC gave a final wave before following us.

The driver asked if we were comfortable and if we needed him to stop anywhere before
he hit the highway. I just needed water, but there was a bar, bottle of champagne,
and two large bottles of water already in the car. I had the painkillers. Tristan
and AC said they were fine, and with that we headed out to the I-45 for the straight
shot to Dallas. I was pouring out a glass of water, and about to take something when
AC placed his hand on my arm. “Hungover?”

I nodded. “A little.”

He smiled. “Sore from last night?”

I blushed.

Tristan threw him a warning glance, but AC just laughed. “As it should be. But I think
champagne should be our cure and our celebration. Seeing as it’s here, and all.” He
held up the bottle. “Looks fresh. That’s good. Quality company, this. No recycling.
I’ve seen limos where the bottles look like they’ve been sitting in the hot car for
much too long. But not this one.”

Tristan rolled his eyes. “The wine connoisseur speaks.”

AC slapped him on the back. “Come on, Lily didn’t leave. That’s worth celebrating.”
He started unwrapping the foil. “And I hate waste. You know that.” He twisted off
the cork. “So dangerous to let a cock, I mean a cork loose in a car.”

I laughed. Even Tristan was smiling. He took the glass AC handed him. “All right,
then. A toast, at least.”

AC raised his glass. “‘To everything, and all the rest.’” It was a Devised lyric.

Tristan echoed his words. “‘To everything, and all the rest.’”

AC nodded at me. “Now you.” He leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “You’re one
of us now. You didn’t leave.” His eyes were soft and encouraging.

I looked over at Tristan. I didn’t think I’d ever seen that expression on his face
before. He leaned over and kissed my other cheek. “That’s because she’s different.
Go on, then, Lil.”

I raised my glass. “‘To everything, and all the rest.’” We clinked glasses. I took
a sip, and glanced at the other two. It was apparently necessary to finish the whole
glass. I quickly returned the glass to my lips and followed suit.

AC refilled our glasses, and we leaned back against the seat, together.

* * *

We’d been quiet after that, looking out the window. Tristan looked at messages on
his phone. AC had put in his headphones. I just watched the road go past, the exit
signs giving names to the places we were leaving behind. It was greener than I had
expected, but the low buildings and big wide skies gave me that same feeling of being
trapped in some kind of bell jar. Some of the buildings were covered with vines that
looked like they would grow over you overnight, like Sleeping Beauty. You could imagine
waking up, covered with green ropes like snakes. Tristan pointed out a tree filled
with large birds. “Buzzards,” he said.

AC pulled off his headphones and peered out the window. “What’s the difference between
a buzzard and a vulture?”

“An interesting question.” One eyebrow went up. “One you will regret asking.” Tristan
swiftly grabbed his arm and pretended to try and wrestle him out of the car. “Here,
nothing. That’s why they’re waiting for you. You just have to die first.”

AC raised his arms, his hands falling forward. “I am dead.” His voice came out in
a croak. “I am the undead. And you. You will join us.” He lunged forward and caught
Tristan off guard, knocking him flat on the long seat. “Join us. Aha, the beating
pulse of youth.” And he fell on him, trying to bite his neck. Tristan tried to push
him off, but AC was remarkably persistent. And stronger than he appeared. Finally,
he was straddling him, pinning him down with his wiry arms, his mouth fused to his
neck. Tristan stopped struggling, and stretched out under him, just long enough for
AC to drop his guard. Then he flipped him over, so that he was above AC, victorious.
It was remarkably effective. It occurred to me I had been on the receiving end of
that move last night. And the look of triumph on Tristan’s face had been similar.
But their bodies were still touching, and AC’s face was slightly flushed. Exertion,
anyone might say. Except then he turned his head, slowly, deliberately, towards me,
and winked.

“He’s one of us now,” AC grinned. “See? He’s dazed. Sure sign of the undead. Or something.”

Tristan sat up, legs bent, sitting back on AC’s ankles. “You’re such a prat.” He had
his hands in his lap.

AC, however, did not. He stretched back, and crossed his arms behind his head. It
only made what was very obvious even more so. I giggled.

Tristan frowned, and climbed off his legs. “My god, AC, you’re such a show-off.”

AC smiled. “I do love an audience.” He glanced over at me, then turned back to Tristan.
“And you’re a natural performer.” He paused for effect. “Or so I’ve been told. Might
pass the time for Lily here. Beats buzzards.”

Tristan laughed, but he didn’t say anything, just grabbed the bottle of champagne
we’d opened and poured each of us another glass.

I watched. But nothing happened. And the rest of the ride was very quiet.

chapter eighteen

Dallas

The concert was going pretty well, all things considered. With everyone suffering
from some kind of ailment—colds, stomach problems made worse through no sleep and
drink, to a sprained ankle the drummer had gotten when his foot caught on the steps
leading down from the stage, and that was now taped up, the professionalism was really
starting to kick in. They sounded tight. Problems in the songs were getting worked
out. Timings were even more exact. The bassist, to his credit, was playing really
well tonight, and even attempted some onstage interaction, walking around to each
member, during a small bass line prominent in one of the middle eight sections. He
stopped at Tristan and AC. AC had been standing slightly behind Tristan, almost looking
over his shoulder at him. The bass player inclined his head slightly, and AC shrugged,
and then smiled, playing a little flurry of notes to compliment the bass line. Tristan
just stood there, legs apart, the microphone swallowed up like a toy in his hand.
They stood there, facing each other, for a moment. I doubt anyone noticed. Then Tristan
raised his arm for the beat to begin the chorus, and he gave a brief nod to the bassist,
before starting on the lyric. It was as close to an apology as anyone was going to
get.

Tristan stayed there for a moment, both hands clutching the microphone, the dark head
bent over, hair covering his face, the veins sticking out in his neck with the effort,
the passion he was putting into the lyric, before he came forward, leaning into the
crowd, the shrieks increasing in volume every time he moved closer to a new group.
It was stupid, it was cliché, it was predictable—and it worked. The same way a kiss
works, even though you know what’s going to happen. The same way coffee wakes you
up in the morning, even though you’ve had it before. The same with any ritual. The
structure is always the same. The passion behind it creates the power. The emotions
on the faces in the crowd, their energy as they pushed forward, trying to get closer
to their hero, their imaginary lover, their idol, their secret dream, were enough
to keep the spark going. That’s what made every night different. Everyone in the audience,
everyone in the band, all came in with their issues, their fears, their hopes—and
the outcome of the mix could never be predicted. I watched Tristan hold his hand out
to people in the front row. Everyone who could was reaching for him, stretching out
their arms like a lifeline, hoping for a touch that they would never forget, a bit
of magic that might even change their lives. There was no way anyone could say that
real live performance wasn’t important. The kind where musicians played, and worked
for it, and sweated it out. For the people watching, it was a moment that defined
who they were.

Tristan was now leaning back against AC. Their spark, whatever they had together,
indefinable, created its own excitement. If they could share a little of it, it couldn’t
hurt anyone, could it? AC’s guitar was piercing through the air. I looked at him again.
He wasn’t as beautiful as Tristan, he didn’t have the warm physicality Tristan possessed
so easily. But there, in his half-closed eyes, his face lost in concentration, pulling
the sounds together and flinging them out into the world, he was beautiful. Then he
opened his eyes wide, and you could see it, the pleasure at his skill, at feeling
Tristan’s body on his own, the impossibility of this happening again and again. The
knowledge of pain, of loss. And yet there was a pride there, a survivor instinct,
a certain defiance. I watched as they finished the song, and Tristan held his arm
up, and said into the microphone, “Please give it up for AC Clark! And his magic guitar!”
The crowd cheered. And there was Tristan’s real beauty. He could not only share the
spotlight, but he would make sure it shined on those who deserved it, using his considerable
power to make sure it happened. He saw what others couldn’t, and he helped everybody
else understand.

AC grinned at him, and waved to the drummer, his arm punching the air to start off
the pulsing beat of the next song. And it had been an ok show before, but now it took
off. The two of them were on fire, invincible. Maybe because they had remembered there
was only one more show left. Maybe because you just didn’t know when the lightning
would strike. You kept at it, waiting for divine intervention. And they looked like
gods up there on the stage. Otherworldly. Invincible. And up there, they were.

It was when they came off stage, that the vulnerabilities returned. The irony of the
situation—that I was there to write about them, write about the tour, and I knew all
the secrets, even the one they didn’t fully realize had escaped, even if AC kept hinting
at it. And I knew I would never write about the two of them, even if that one story
would be enough to ensure my future success and notoriety. Regardless of my personal
interest in the matter. No matter what happened. Never.

I always used to wonder why there weren’t more stories out there about what went on
backstage, the relationships. Maybe because when you got close enough, you did feel
a kind of extreme loyalty. Or maybe because no one would ever believe it. If you were
in, you protected the pack. If you were out—it just sounded like whining. There had
been a couple of tell-alls. Despite some interest, they generally came across having
the same effect as spray painting a marble statue. Making something ugly. And there
were some bad stories out there that had never seen the light of day. I thought of
the engineer who had described to me being told to call home with excuses to the wife—not
his, but the keyboardist he was working with. The people who made the music weren’t
perfect. But the dream thrived on illusion. So the question underneath was always
there—why are you doing this? Why are you spoiling the dream?

The band was starting the encore. The whole thing had gone by so quickly. I looked
around. The usual complement of roadies, girls who had managed to get backstage, local
celebs who liked the band, taking selfies with the stage as backdrop. There’d be a
party after the show, some contest winners, autographs, drinks, the customary crowd.
I watched them wrap up. Then the whole band came together and lined up for a bow.
There was something about the way they were all waving, the way even the bass player
was finally acting like a part of the band, that made it feel more like the last night
of the tour. A final wave, and they separated, drifting off the stage, AC handing
his guitar over to the roadie looking after the instruments, while taking a towel
from him. Tristan got his towel too, and gave me a little wave, as they went past
the onlookers, smiling, but eager to get back to the dressing room, and decompress
before they had to face another crowd at the after-party.

I followed, and when the band bifurcated into the two dressing rooms, I went with
Tristan and AC. They were the big names, and because of that, no one really questioned
the hierarchy of the larger dressing room going to them. Whatever else anyone might
have been thinking, they either didn’t say or kept it very quiet, especially after
the blowout in Minneapolis. I don’t think anyone doubted Tristan when he had made
it known “that he would sack the next person outright who hadn’t reached the 21st
century.” The whole thing seemed very far away now. The energy had changed. Everything
was about tonight, this moment in time. And tonight, it was one more party to get
through, one more concert. The promise of some time off before hitting L.A. still
seemed a distant idea.

Tristan was stripping off his shirt. He wouldn’t take a shower here, but he always
washed the sweat off his face and torso. He always said, especially on nights like
tonight when he was wearing leather trousers, that it was more trouble than it was
worth to take everything off and start again. So he stood there in the middle of the
room, peeling off the sweat-soaked shirt, revealing the fascinating expanse of skin,
the line of dark hair leading down, his chest displaying his new tattoo. I glanced
over at AC. He was watching, his expression blank. It was all in his eyes. The slightly
raised eyebrow, the intensity of his gaze. It was the look of someone whose imagination
was at work. But he felt me looking at him, and turned in my direction. He winked
before I could look away. I smiled, almost blushing. But he was quicker than me, more
used to the quick cover-up. “Shall I take mine off too, Lily? I’m sure you didn’t
only follow us in here for an interview.” And he pulled off his t-shirt in one quick
motion, and circled his nipple with a finger, sticking out his ass, a near picture
perfect imitation of a 1970s era Mick Jagger. “Fuck, I’m hot. Shit, girl! Yes!” And
he did a little shimmy.

I couldn’t help it, I collapsed on the sofa laughing. AC was funny. But he also made
me nervous. There was something about the two of them there, standing there, looking
at me like that. I didn’t even want to think about it.

Tristan sniggered. “AC, you killed her. Your stripper act is too much for the girls,
I keep telling you that.”

AC smacked his ass, hard. The sound of skin connecting with leather rocketed through
the room. “Not often enough.” He went right up to him, striking a pose, and stuck
out a hip, looking for all the world like some androgynous fighter, ready to start
something. “Like what you see, darling?” We both looked at Tristan to see what he’d
do.

A flicker of something crossed his face. He opened his mouth, then shut it. Then he
moved to circle around him, slowly, as though he were inspecting the goods. He stopped
when he had made a full circle, and looked him in the eye. Then without warning, he
spun him around and pulled him up hard against him, and held him tight to his body.
One hand went to his nipples and pinched, relentlessly enough that AC finally let
out a small yelp. But the look in his eyes was melting, as much as he was trying to
keep from showing anything. Tristan did a slow grind against his ass, then pushed
him away roughly. “I’m sure I told you not to tease me.” His voice was low. He turned
to me and smiled. “Performers on and off the stage. It’s in our blood.” And he walked
off to the bathroom. But leather pants don’t hide much.

“Bastard,” AC muttered. But he laughed and strutted over to the table to get a bottle
of water. “Want something, Lily?” That tone in his voice.

“No, I’m fine.” Except my voice came out as a croak, my mouth was so dry. AC stared
at me. “Maybe I do. Thanks.”

AC came over and handed me a bottle. “That’s right. When you’re thirsty, you drink.”

I didn’t say anything.

* * *

They had closed one of the smaller stages in the venue for the party. It was feeling
more and more like the last wrap-up, the final cast party for the stage show. Everyone
was in a good mood. Tristan mingled and signed some autographs for people, chatting
to the record company people like they were lifelong friends. The cynical side of
me wondered if they had news on the winners for the awards show. If he was going to
win, they would want to be nice to him, their cash cow. If he was going to lose, they’d
want to be nice to him so he wouldn’t throw a tantrum and do something to sabotage
the tour. Besides, even the nomination had increased the sales. That’s how it all
worked. Nothing like telling people something was popular to get them all to rush
out and buy it. I studied their faces. It was a business. Even with everything I knew,
I tended to forget that, seeing it all more solidly from the side of the artist. These
were people mingling, enjoying the perks of the job, happy to keep up with the meetings
and paperwork tomorrow if they could get drunk with some stars tonight. An ocean of
selfies, pics with the band, who would stand closest to Tristan, AC a close second.
I shook my head, and headed for the bar. Positivity. There were worse things. And
it wouldn’t kill me to be more positive.

As I ordered a bourbon, figuring even if Texas wasn’t the south, it was close enough,
I was surprised when the bartender started flirting and chatting, asking how I liked
Texas, was there anything I wanted to see. I laughed. Then I realized it was the first
time anyone had apart from Tristan, or maybe AC, had actually spoken to me in weeks.
And Hank. Fuck I missed him. The entourage circled me warily. I avoided the outside
world, the fans, the staff. It wasn’t as though you could speak to them anyway. No
one was really to be trusted, unless they were on the inside. I could feel myself
shutting down. I smiled, warily, and made some comment about wanting to ride a horse,
which made him laugh, as it was intended. He probably didn’t know who I was. Anyway,
it really didn’t do any good to let down your guard. I was part of the tour. Who knew
who he was, really? There would have been a time when I would have been happy to talk
with him. Now I felt like I needed to protect myself, keep all my knowledge my own.
If that was partially because I usually liked to talk to people when I was drinking,
and partially because I couldn’t stop thinking of something in particular, I couldn’t
tell. It could be paranoia, it could be self-preservation. Whatever it was, I didn’t
want any secrets to slip out. I was drinking, not drunk, not yet, but I was getting
there. Loyal to the group and part of it. Passing by the rest. I said thanks, maybe
a little more curtly than I had intended, and moved away.

I wandered around a bit, listening to pieces of conversations. The usual mix of nonsense,
flirtation, and business. I spotted AC, and relieved, went over to where he was was
standing. They were lowering a screen, and someone was setting up a projector. One
enterprising group went over to one of the low red brocade covered sofas, and showing
admirable teamwork, all pitched in and managed to carry it over nearer to the screen
for a better view. I whispered to AC, “What the hell is this? And is there popcorn?”

He looked at me. “You’ll never believe it.”