Chasing Storm (8 page)

I’ve just come out of the shower when I hear my cell going off.

I manage to reach it, losing my towel in the process.

It’s Dan.

Just answer it, idiot.

“Hey,” he starts.

“Hey.”

“I just thought I’d call and see how you’re doing. I didn’t want to be one of those stalker types I have to talk to because they’ve sent their girl a thousand texts.”

“I’m your girl?”

“If you want to be.”

I sit down naked on the corner of my bed. “Dan, I-”

“Look, we don’t have to talk about it now, okay. It can wait.”

“I don’t think it can.”
Say it.
“I can’t be in a relationship at the moment.”

“But you were at his place.” There’s a different tone to Dan’s voice now.

“Whose place?”

“Storm’s.”

“How did you-”

“I’m the sheriff, Alice. I know what goes on.”

I start to get irritated. “You have no right spying on me like that.”

“He’s no good, Alice.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“You want the truth?”

“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell it to me anyhow.”

“Damn right I am. His father was Bobby Black. You know, the big drug kingpin around these parts. When he died, Storm became the last of that cursed family left. Ol’ Bobby amassed a damn near fortune selling crack to the kids in Millertown, and you know what?”

“What?”

“Storm’s just keeping up the family business.”

“And you’ve got evidence of this?”

Silence. “We’ll get it, but the thing is, it’s not safe with him. There are people out there, bikers, criminals, who all want a piece of that money Bobby left behind. Bobby made a lot of enemies, and they’re not people you want to meet. They’ve been to that place before looking for that money, and they’ll be back again until they find it or at least take their pound of flesh.”

I swallow, reaching for the towel and pulling it around myself. “Goodbye, Dan.”

I hang up feeling rude, especially after hearing about Dan’s story from Jemma.

It does scare me what Storm could be involved with, but something tells me he’s not a criminal. I just… know. I have intuition. As my time in New York proved, my gut’s not always right, but it feels different here. Storm feels… right.

I have overreacted about the Lisa thing. It’s unreasonable to think he could live out there like a hermit. Hell, he didn’t even know who I was until a few days ago. He deleted her. She’s gone. He made it clear I’m the one he wants to be with.

Why can’t I just give in?

*

There’s only one turn on our trip into Longsville, population 10,000. I see where Storm’s taped up the window of my car and it sends a strange twinge spiraling into the very pit of my stomach.
Call him. Do
something.

“What did you say this band was called?” I ask Jemma, who has the window down, her hand sailing up and down over the horizon.

“The Pig Phuckers.”

“Charming.”

“Honestly, you’ll love them.”

Jemma has always known my taste in music. The hours we spent sharing a set of headphones down at the bowl… I miss those days when our biggest worry was what to wear to school the next day.

I smile back. “I trust you.”

We arrive and I’m surprised to see the line to get in stretches right around the block. “Wow, you weren’t kidding.”

“Like I said, they’re a great band.”

I’m forced to park three streets away, trying to get used to these old heels I found in the wardrobe as we make our way to the back of the line.

The crowd’s an interesting mix. There are plenty of kids here, yes, but there’s also a good showing of fellow twenty-somethings and even old rockers. It feels… familiar. I’m looking forward to some live music, a chance to kick back a bit and forget about Dan, Storm and Rosie.

Jemma takes the keys from my hand.

“What are you doing?” I protest.

“You’re drinking tonight whether you like it or not. I’m afraid it’s water, water and water for me.”

“Is that an order?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You sound like Dan.”

She pushes her breasts together. “Look, we almost have the same size tits, too.”

I shake my head. “You’re terrible.”

“And you need a drink. Come on.”

The venue’s small and stuffy, but the air is electric inside. A chant has started up at the front.

Pig Phuckers!

Pig Phuckers!

I have to laugh.

I’m at the bar at the back observing proceedings.

As always, Jemma met some friends on the way in and has subsequently disappeared.

The bartender slides over. “Whatllbe?”

“Wine, please.”

“We got beer, we got Coke and we got bourbon. That’s it.”

“Guess I’ll have a Coke and bourbon then.”

I take the tumbler and sink the drink back. I’m transported right back to my youth, drinking bourbon straight from the bottle trying to pull cred with the cool kids. Lisa made it seem like I had chance. She was actually being nice to me. At least until I found the cow’s heart she left in my backpack.

I call Jemma again, but her phone rings out.

Where are you?
I text.

No response.

The lights go out and the band comes on stage.

I’ve dressed up, I’ve come out. I’m not about to stand up the back by the bar looking like an idiot. I elbow my way into the rear of the crowd and try to catch a glimpse of the band.

They kick into an energetic mix of ’90s grunge and UK punk.

They’re not so bad. In New York you could practically see a new band every night, which raised my inner critic somewhat. Here in Longsville, they have to make do.

Make do.
It resonates in my head.
Settle. Give in.

Give up.

I can’t. I just cannot do it.

“Come on, Longsville!” the singer shouts, voice grated and hoarse. They kick into a solid four-four beat as the crowd sways and moves before me.

I’m listening to the band play, bodies growing sweaty around me, but I’m not engaged. I cannot relax.
Thank you, O Mighty One,
I silently whisper,
for providing us with weird leaky holes called vaginas and a brain you can’t turn off. A switch would have come in handy, you know? Is that really so much to ask? How about one for leg hair, and zits? Female 2.0, come on.”

The good lord does not see fit to provide me with a reply.

One thing that has eventuated is that all this drama has made me forget
him
.

I still remember the night I finally made the call. The police arrived, they took my statement, but coked up to his eyeballs and requiring five officers to bring him down, it was clear what he’d done to me. “Fractured,” the doctor told me, looking at the X-ray.

Yes, I had to admit it.
I
was the victim. I tried to tell myself I wasn’t weak. I tried and tried, but I still feel that way no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise.

Fuck him.

With a cymbal crash, the next song finishes.

The lead singer hangs over the mic. “You’ve been real great, Longsville, but now I’d like to welcome a special guest onto the stage.”

A guy bumps into me with a beer. I miss what the singer is saying.

Someone’s walking onto the stage, guitar slung low across their crotch.

Oh shit.

It’s him.
He’s
the special guest?

I’ve been played.

Storm steps up to mic, grasping it in one hand and striking a power chord with the other. “I want to send this out to a special girl.” The fucker looks right at me somehow. “She knows who she is.”

He launches into a high-energy crowd-pleaser, the rest of the band backing him up. He can play alright, he can sing.

I’m not going to be that girl,
I tell myself,
the one who swoons over the pretty boy with a guitar in his hands,
but more and more my willpower’s slipping.

Storm wraps it up, punching out a screamer of a note before the big finale. The crowd erupts and I have to hand it to him. He’s good.

He disappears off the stage, but not before he turns and seems to narrow in on my location.

Make him come to you.

So I wait. Another song goes past, and another, and another. I’m starting to get a little anxious waiting when I suddenly feel hands on the bare skin of my arms. I’ve been groped at concerts before, but I know this different. I know this is him. The hot breath on the side of my face confirms it.

“Fancy seeing you here,” comes his voice.

I don’t turn. I keep my eyes locked on the stage as he presses in behind me. “You shouldn’t act so surprised. You think I’m that easy?”

“Yes.”

Cheeky bastard.
“You’re going to have to work for me.”

“I just poured my heart out for you on stage. That’s not enough?”

“Nope.”

“What’s it going to take then? Chocolate and roses?”

“Perhaps.”

“I’m not really a chocolate-and-roses kind of guy.”

I can hear the way my voice turns flirty, the game this has suddenly turned into as his fingers grip my hips. “What kind of guy are you then?”

“Be with me. Find out. I promise you it will be worth it.”

I press back towards him. “And if I agree?”

“You’ll never want for anything.”

I’m heating up internally. It’s all getting to me, the music, his hard body. I’m in the moment.

The band announces the next song. A great cheer goes up and people suddenly swarm around us, pressing us even tighter together. I try to turn around, but the way we’re packed in doesn’t allow full movement.

His fingers move back to my arms, tracing down them and circling around my elbows.

Another cry goes up from the crowd and I’m momentarily lost. His touch is gone, all but a ghost, and then I feel fingers sweeping my hair aside. His breath is hot and heavy on my exposed neck. He’s putting me under his bad-boy spell again.

His fingers rake through my hair up the back of my neck, tugging on the sensitive strands there gently.

His lips press to my neck, vampire-like, and I tilt my head to the side out of some natural instinct, eyes closed, my hands locking themselves in front of me. My legs are slightly parted, still fighting for placement as the human ocean around us oscillates in time with the rhythm.

Storm brings his lips together in a kiss over my jugular and then runs the tip of his tongue slowly up my neck to the area just below my hairline. When his lips leave, my skin goes cold. They reappear again, tugging lightly at my earlobe, a hint of teeth, pulling.

I open my eyes briefly. Surely someone in the crowd has noticed, but if they do, they don’t seem to mind, facing forwards and singing along to the music.

I try to push my arms out, which only seems to irritate the guy who’s back they’re digging into. He turns briefly before facing the stage and bobbing back along.

The music grows louder. It resonates in my core, and as Storm continues to kiss my neck, my cheek, a pressure builds.

I’m aware of something else. It’s his hardness. I can make out its length through his jeans pressed into the baby flesh of my inner thigh inches away from my pussy. The level surface of his chest is hard against my back. It’s solid, masculine, toned, just as I remember it.

I try to say something, but it’s met with a soft “ssshh” in my ear.

His hand leaves my hair and falls into the no man’s land between us, heavy and purposeful.

My breathing is labored, both from the physical energy to stay afoot and the heated situation developing behind me. The air is laden with dry ice from the stage, the stench of fresh weed backed by an artificial burning.

On the underside of my arms my nipples harden into stony pebbles. The anticipation is too much. I hold my breath waiting for his next move, wondering where his hands might venture next.

They circle my waist, one per side, clamping my sides just above my pelvic bone at the rim of my skirt. Painfully slow he works them upwards under the silk of my shirt. They run over my belly, over the plane of my stomach, reaching higher and higher until he is cupping my breasts, drawing his thumb and index fingers together under the mounds. He moves around them, a potter, coaxing them, weighing them in his hands gently.

When his fingertips find my nipples I release a slight moan. An electric tickle zaps through my body and I push my chest out. He pinches a nipple between his fingers, twisting it slightly, then harder until I yelp. He tugs it sideways, downwards, working each together in syncopation and then in different directions. I can’t believe this is happening, right here. Someone could catch us. We could be kicked out, but this added sense of danger only adds to the thrill.

His hands grow more adventurous, cupping me with greater pressure, his cock still a hard indentation against my leg. He’s moving his hips, forcing it upwards at the hem of my skirt, pressing it in and out.

Behind my eyelids I see flashes of light, bursts of color and it’s like being in some surrealist dream, the vampires of Anne Rice descending on your body by night.

His right hand still moving around my breast, his head buried in my hair, his left hand swings down my body. It slides down the front of my skirt, into my panties and over my mons.

Some noise escapes me, some strange phantasm of sound. I try to restrain myself, but it’s too late. His fingers are shoveling into me. My body is at his mercy. I know each time his fingers slide into that crevice, parting my tender lips, they’ll come away wetter and wetter.

He continues to work with both hands. His cock is an impatient door-knocker, embedded now between my ass cheeks, the steely underside of it splitting them in two, rocking back and forth like a pendulum. What little there was of my skirt to begin with is now bunched up between us.

I spread my legs a touch wider and his index finger dips deep into my pussy. His palm is against my clit and his fingers are now inside me, working at the muscles of my most intimate space. I pull them tight. He groans in my ear.

If he keeps this up I’m going to come right here amongst these people, surrounded by flesh. Yet all these thoughts do is flood his hand further. Moisture runs down my his wrist.

He pivots his hand, I lean back into his dick and he pushes two digits sharply into my core. The feeling of being filled like that, my cunt expanding to accommodate him, is welcome. They slide easily up and down inside me, gliding over my rippled walls, reaching up into some hidden inner sanctuary, new throes of desire eating away at what energy and resistance I may have had left.

I smell myself, my sex open, perspiring with want, its velvet-like liquidity patchy against my thighs and seeping into the area below my slit.

His fingers pull out and at once I feel the openness closing over in the retreat. His free hand has covered my breast fully, the nipple between the webbing of his fingers, caught in the trap.

The band’s singing through a bridge, having changed songs somewhere as I was caught in sweet agony. The crowd sings along, the tempo moving quicker.

“How’s that?” he whispers against my ear, stroking my clit leisurely, my pink aperture a hot and hungry mouth below mourning the loss.

“I want you inside me,” I whisper back. I know how foolish it sounds, how impossible, but it’s right there, his cock, pressed into my panties, its bulbous head comfortably sitting in the dimple at the top of my backside.

Flashes, light, pyro. My eyelids are alight and I know the feeling, the strange white noise that takes over everything else as I near orgasm, by body pulling tightly together. He keeps a steady rhythm, running over the dome, pressing into the fat lips of my pussy, finding my clit and lightly manipulating the tiny package of skin until I know it is going to happen. I’m going to come right here, against his hand, his cock pressed into my back and encircled by the general public.

The thought is so outrageous, so hot and out of my radar that I do. I thrust my hips against his finger and arch my entire back as rolls and washes of pure energy move through me, that system of pleasure between my legs, that series of skin and flesh, contracting, a bird’s mouth, opening and closing.

I literally cannot breathe. I’ve never come this hard before. There’s a faintness in my head and when I open my eyes it takes some time for my vision to come to, color seeping in slowly from the sides.

His left hand holds the front of my thigh while his right clamps over my mouth. His fingers gathered against my lips, I taste myself, the by-product of my orgasm. His fingers are soaked, the scent of sex unavoidable, my nostrils expanding with it, a delirious need to be filled welling up inside me.

It takes a lot of effort to release one of my arms. I stretch, twist and reach around behind my back, forcing it between us, curling my wrist, finding the top of his jeans and reaching inside. As usual, he’s not wearing underpants and this fact starts a new wetness spreading out between my legs.

I roll my fingers around the head of his cock in reverse. They slip in his pre-cum. I allow it to lubricate my fingers, coiling them around his tip, polishing it. I jerk him off, run my hand down his shaft. When I reach his balls, pulling them up towards his body, his hand knots up in my hair, making a fist and pulling it back, my eyes pointing at the roof. No one intervenes. They’re in their own worlds, oblivious to the fuck-fest happening right in front of them.

I twist my hand out and put it down my panties, replacing his own against my slit, letting the creases of my pussy part for my fingers as they glide down there, my next orgasm already building.

His hand is at his pants and I know he’s pulling his zipper down. It’s taking some effort, but he pulls his cock free and it springs there, bouncing between my ass cheeks, his cum already seeping through the wet mesh of my panties. He hooks a finger into the corner of them, the narrow bridge of fabric wedged into my backside, and pulls it violently over my butt cheek until the fabric tears and they fall from me. He lifts my skirt up until my entire waist is exposed, uncovered but invisible to those around us given we’re pressed so tight.

The lead singer’s clapping his hands in the air, urging the crowd to join along, and they do so as one voice. Storm’s hands are not in the air. They’re underneath my ass cheeks, pulling them apart, allowing his hardness to fall between them, the head of his dick sliding right against the hot opening of my pussy.

All I have to do is push my hips back and he’ll be inside me.

Yet he waits. He see-saws his dick back and forth, letting my moisture accumulate atop it. The feeling of my bare skin exposed to the air is outrageous. I cannot believe this is happening. I’m about to be fucked in the middle of a concert, and I want it so bad, his dick, to be fucked, really fucked and come again, harder than before, lifeless, impaled upon him.

I lift myself up at the same time he brings his hands higher, spreading my ass apart fully. My pussy opens up, he presses forward and his cock glides up inside me in one motion right to the back of my passage. The slick sound this action makes can be heard even over the din of the concert.

His breath releases at my ear, my hand continues to work my clit and he begins moving. With each thrust I am forced up into the guy in front of me. This time he does not turn, even as Storm’s cock fills me from behind, sliding in and out, stretching me out to the fullest. Every nerve end is strained against him, tingling and balling into pure elation.

The drummer kicks into a standard off-time beat and Storm matches it, pulling at my cheeks violently, pressing forward until I feel the hair of his pubes press against my own, mingling with sweat, juice and cum at the intersection.

It is so extreme, so far out of anything I’ve done before, that I purr at the sensation.
You’ve clearly done this before, you bold bastard.

Yes.

Yes.

I pull my PC muscles together and he moans, his pace increasing, out-matching that of the drummer. In this off-beat fashion, in the intensity of the moment, my next orgasm seems imminent, rolling over the embers of the last. My heart seems out of control, my breathing frenzied.

I’m going to die,
I think.
I’m going to collapse here with him inside me and no one will ever know.

God don’t stop.

Don’t you dare fucking stop.

He holds me around the waist and drives forward, thrusting as far as he can go, my cheeks and thighs pressing around his length cocooning him within me.