My Heart's Blood (Hard Love & Dark Rock #1) (2 page)

Chapter 3

Anne

I did end up letting Becca dress me—which turned out to be even worse than I thought it would be—but I really was excited about the chance to see Trace LeBeau live, so I felt obligated to indulge her whims.

"I’ve been wanting to do this since I first found out your were going to be my dorm-mate," she said.  "It’s like having a life-size Barbie, except brunette and with really awesome tits.  Do you have any idea of what I’d give to have tits like yours?  How many dudes I’d blow?  It chaps my ass to see how you always hide them away.  Not tonight, girl.  Tonight you’re gonna give these beauties a taste of freedom.  You’re gonna let these babies loose."

She ended up stuffing me into a pushup bra that was at least two cup-sizes too small, which left my boobs constantly on the verge of spilling out.  And then she had me put on a tight mini-skirt that was cut so low in front you could see the frilled edge of the bra.

"I don’t think I can wear this," I said.  "It’s like you’re trying to balance two scoops of ice cream side by side on a single sugar cone.  There’s no way I’m gonna get through the night without something falling out."

I grabbed the front of the bra with both hands, trying to pull it up.

"Hey, hey,
hey
!" she said, smacking my hands away.  "Don’t mess with it.  It’s perfect just like that."  And then she stared for a moment, her eyes looking wistful, and let out a sigh.  "I can’t wait till I can get some dude to buy me a pair of tits like those.  It’s like having a pair of beautiful, fleshy pillows on your chest."

She reached up with her right hand and squeezed my left boob.

This time it was my turn to say "Hey!"  I smacked her hand away.  But no sooner had I done that than she reached up with her left hand and squeezed the other one.  "Hey!" I said again, smacking her hand.

She raised her face and looked me in the eyes.  "Anne," she said, her expression suddenly serious.  "You gotta let me have a Brumski."

"What?  Let you have a what?"

"A Brumski.  You gotta let me have one.  With boobs like that, it’s not fair to deny me.  It’d be cruel and unusual punishment."

"What the hell is a Brumski?"

"You know, a Brumski.  Or maybe you’re more familiar with the term motorboat."

"Motorboat?  I have no idea what you’re talking about."

"You don’t know motorboat either?  Agh!  Say it ain’t so!  Such a wonderful bounty god’s granted you, and you don’t even know what something as basic and wonderful and—and
essential
—as a motorboat is?"

I frowned and shrugged my shoulders.

"Fine, I’ll show you.  And this is for your own good."

And then, before I knew what was happening, she’d grabbed my boobs with both of her hands and smooshed her face down into my cleavage, rolling her head right and left, pressing her cheeks against my skin.

"Becca!" I shrieked, hopping backward, the abrupt motion nearly overwhelming the inadequate bra.

She raised her head, a dreamy look on her face, both her eyes still closed.

"Becca, are you crazy!"

She opened her eyes, still smiling.  "Gods, but that’s lovely," she said.  "You should try it yourself.  Your boobs are probably big enough for a solo motorboat."  Then her eyes went thoughtful.  "But I suppose it’d be like everything else.  It’s never quite as magic when you do it to yourself."

"Becca, are we going to this show or what?" I said.  "There is a show, right?  The Belletrists?  You didn’t just make it up so you could play dress up with me, did you?"

"Cripes, that’s lovely too," she said.

And then I realized she wasn’t even looking at me.  She was looking at something behind me.

I looked over my shoulder. I was standing in front of the tall mirror.  And then I saw what she was looking at.  The miniskirt was so mini it left the bottom curve of my buttcheeks hanging out.

"Yipe!" I said, trying to tug the skirt down.

"Hey hey hey, stop!" Becca said.  She rushed forward and slapped at my hands again.  "Don’t tug things out of place."

"My ass is hanging out!" I said.  "I can’t go out in this!"

"Stop, stop.  Leave it.  Leeeave it."

"I’m not a dog, Becca."

She shot me a hard look.  "Well then stop acting like a bitch.  Your ass looks super hot.  There’s nothing wrong with the skirt, so don’t mess with it."

"Nothing wrong with it!"

"Listen, Anne.  We’re going to a super-exclusive concert tonight.  Not many people get to go to this, and the ones that do are gonna be bringing their A games, understand?  It’s a small club—only two hundred people and the band.  There is never going to be a better chance to meet Trace LeBeau than this.  Wouldn’t you like to meet him?"

"I… I can’t even imagine meeting him.  It just doesn’t seem like the sort of thing that could happen."

"But if it could happen, if you had to choose between meeting him and not meeting him, what would you choose?"

"I…"

"What would you choose?"

"To meet him."

She nodded her head once.  "Well, there’s never gonna be a better chance to meet him than tonight.  But everybody else that’s going tonight knows that, too.  And they’re all gonna be bringing their A games, so that means you’ve gotta bring you’re a game too.  You’ve got great tits, a banging ass.  Use what you got, and who knows what might happen tonight.  It could be better than anything you read about in those books you’ve always got your nose buried in."

I shook my head.  "Becca, I’d be thrilled just to see the band.  And seeing them in a special small venue show is already way more than I ever expected.  I can’t even imagine what it would be like to actually meet them."

"Listen, Anne.  Sometimes girls get to go home with the band, you know.  Why can’t those girls be us?"

-

We cut across campus and jumped on a metro train, headed downtown.  I grabbed a seat a row back from the door—I was sort of trying to hide because the glaring lights in the train made me feel even more exposed than the barely-there outfit already did—but Becca seemed too excited to sit down.  She stood in the aisle, throwing her hands around, gesturing wildly and telling me all about what an incredible night we were gonna have.

"Anne, tonight is gonna be totally
off the chain
!" she crowed, loud enough to make an old Chinese guy turn and scowl.  "You look hotter than a three alarm fire, and I know that Ronnie is gonna hook us up with prime spots at the show.  This is gonna be
epic
!"

We got off at Van Ness Station, pushing our way through the crowd.  I had my arms up in front of my chest, trying to keep my boobs from popping out, but that left my backside unprotected.  Before we slipped free from the crush of people on the platform, I felt somebody pinch my butt.  Twice.  My face blazed hot, and I'm sure I must have been blushing brighter red than a stop sign.

"What is it?" Becca said.

"Somebody just grabbed my butt," I said.

"Oh, that was me," Becca said.  "Sorry.  Couldn't help myself.  Your ass just looks too fantastic in that skirt!"

The city was swarming with people up on street level, too, folks all dressed up for Friday night.  We passed by the Symphony and the Opera House crowds—all grey hair and conservative suits—and made our way up to the Tenderloin district.

The crowd around Club Hemlock was massive, with people spilling off of the sidewalk and out into the street.  Almost everybody was dressed in black, and plenty of women were wearing outfits even more revealing than mine.  Tight dresses, high heels, long hair spilling down over low-cut tops, and plenty of fishnet and lace—it looked like a casting call for a Belletrists video, with a mob of supermodels dressing goth-rock for the part.

Suddenly, I felt like a little kid who'd wondered into a party full of beautiful, sophisticated adults.  On the train I'd been embarrassed about how revealing my outfit was, but when I saw how many beautiful women there were in the crowd, it occurred to me that I wasn't likely to be noticed at all.  If I'd shown up in my underwear and thrown myself at Trace LeBeau's feet, he'd only notice me for long enough to not stumble over my body on the way toward one of these gorgeous Amazons.

Just like that, the crazy hope that had been growing inside of me deflated like a popped balloon.  I almost wanted to turn around and go back to the dorm.

Becca must have noticed me dragging my feet.  She turned back to look at me, a surprised expression on her face.

"What's up, Anne?" she said.

"I don't know if this is a good idea," I said.  "I mean, we're not even old enough to legally enter the club.  The doorman will probably laugh in our faces and call us a couple of stupid kids."

Becca's expression went stern.

"I told you that Ronnie had it all sorted, didn't I?" she said.  "Don't chicken out on me now, Anne.  Don't you want to see the Belletrists play?"

"Well, yeah," I said, feeling nearly desperate from that desire.  "Yeah, I really, really do."

"Then come on!"  She grabbed me by the hand, turned around, and started pushing her way through the crowd.

We got a couple of dirty looks from some of the women in the crowd, but Becca got us up to the front.  A huge black guy with a shaved head and a leather jacket sat perched on a barstool near the door.  He had a pair of mirrored shades over his eyes, even though it was night time.

"Yo Leroy!" Becca said.  "What's up?"

The big guy's mouth stretched wide with a smile.

"Sweet Baby Becca," he said.  He leaned forward to hug her—his huge arms nearly swallowing her up—and planted a peck on her cheek.  "You look incredible.  And who's your lovely lady friend?"

"This is my roommate Anne," Becca said.  "She looks super sexy, am I right?"

"Very right," Leroy purred.  "She looks good enough to eat."

I felt an embarrassed blush creeping into my cheeks.  I crossed my arms over my chest and raised my hand in a feeble wave.

Leroy reached for my hand like he was going to shake it, and then pulled me in for an enveloping hug like the one he'd given to Becca.  His arms were strong but gentle, and he smelled like leather and cinnamon.  Before he'd let me go, I found myself wrapping my arms around his sides and hugging him back.

"So Ronnie said he'd get us in," Becca said, once Leroy let me go.

"He did indeed, baby girl.  He's got the private access pass for you two.  Lemme just call him up on the walkie."

Leroy pulled a little walkie talkie from his jacket pocket and held it near his broad grin.  He pressed the button on the side and started talking.

"Little Dog, this is Big Dog, come in."

A moment later, an eager sounding voice crackled through the walkie talkie's speaker.

"Leroy, this is Ronnie.  Is she here?"

"She is indeed.  Sweet Baby Becca has arrived."

"Awesome!  Can you tell her to meet me at the alley entrance?"

"Roger that, little dog.  I'll let her know."

"Thanks, Leroy.  You're the man."

"You know it, little buddy.  Big Dog over and out."

Leroy dropped the walkie talkie back in his pocket, turned his beaming grin toward us.

"You know where the alley entrance is, baby girl?" he asked.

"Sure do, 'Big Dog'," Becca said.  She gave him a teasing smile.  "Since when did you and Ronnie turn into a couple of canines?"

He smiled back even bigger.  "Well, a little bird told me about your nickname for Ronnie.  I been trying to tease him with it, but the brother is too love-drunk to catch on."

"Did that little bird tell you anything else about me and Ronnie," Becca said, her mouth quirking up at the corner, one eyebrow arching high.  "Say, anything relating to why I gave him that nickname in the first place?"

"I believe it did, baby girl," Leroy said.  He gave her a wink.  "But I suppose you already know.  It was a
baby
bird I heard it from, chirping into her phone right here outside the club.  If I didn't know better, I might have figured that the little bird
wanted
me to hear.  Some little birds like to sing about themselves.  And when they're young, and just learning to fly, it can actually be sort of sweet."

Becca's face started to flush a little, and her smile started crimping her cheeks.  I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, but Bawdy Becca looked almost embarrassed.

"Don't birds sing to attract new mates?" she said, her voice uncharacteristically quiet.  "Especially when they're learning to fly?"

Leroy's grin mellowed a little.  His eyes took on a thoughtful tone, though they didn't lose their warmth.

"Becca, I'm an old dog.  I ain't a bird-dog no more."  He put a big hand on her shoulder gently, looking into her eyes.  "And my man Ronnie, I think he's more taken with you than you realize.  Play easy with him, all right?"

Chapter 4

Trace

We left my hotel room, and Joey dragged me down the hall to the suite where the rest of the band was hanging out.  There must have been two dozen people in there, including some local press and a Rolling Stone reporter.  Smoke and sound filled the air; a stereo blared in the corner, clashing with all the loud-voiced conversations. I nearly turned around and went back to my room.

Before I could, Joey draped his arm over my shoulders and held me in place.  I didn't feel motivated enough to resist, so I stood there with him and looked for the rest of the band.

Sergio, the band’s bassist, was sitting on the couch with his cousin Angel and a couple of dizzy-looking girls I'd never seen before.  Both Sergio and his cousin had bass guitars draped over their knees, and it looked like they were going over riffs, trading them back and forth.  By all the slapping and popping they were doing, I guessed the riffs weren't from Belletrists songs.

Micah, the lead-guitarist, was standing in the corner, a glass of red wine in his left hand, a switchblade in his right.  He was flipping the blade up into the air, letting it spin two or three times before the handle smacked back into his palm.  All the while, his eyes never left the ladies standing next to him, one of whom was the reporter from the Stone.  I'd seen him do this bit before, acting whacked out for the press.  It used to be a like a game for him—to see what kind of crazy story he could them to write—but recently I wasn't so sure where the act ended and reality began.

And Sara, our keyboardist, wasn't anywhere to be seen.  Truthfully, I couldn't say I was surprised by that.

When this semi-secret, interest-gauging tour had first kicked off, Sara made a point of showing face at the pre and post-show parties—but even then she'd been sort of withdrawn.  After what happened with Lucy, the proximity of a reporter made her bolt faster than a deer that catches a hunter's scent.  By the time this tour reached the Casbah Club in Austin, Sara had started to skip the parties all together.  And for the last few shows, she hadn't even ridden to the venue with the rest of the band, preferring to take a private car separately.

To tell the truth, part of me was glad.  Sara didn't look much like her sister, but every time I saw her face I couldn't help but think of Lucy, of how she'd looked when I'd found her, pale and cold, lying beside me in the bed.

For a moment my eyes started to sting, and the room blurred in front of me.  I squeezed my eyelids shut, brought a hand to my face.  For the most part, the drugs kept the pain at bay, kept everything dull and muted.  But even now, a year later, the thought of Lucy could bring a flash of pain cutting through the fog, penetrating my chest like an ice-cold blade.

"Trace, you all right?"

It was Joey, his arm tight over my shoulders, shaking me a little.

I pulled in a quick breath and held it for a moment, then let it out.  I visualized the pain fading away—dissipating in the air like smoke, a dull numbness taking its place—just like the therapists had taught me to do.

I opened my eyes and nodded my head.  "I'm alright," I said.

"Good," Joey said, squeezing my shoulders again.  "That's what I like to hear.  This is San Francisco, man!  Our S.F. shows are always awesome, and I've got a good feeling about tonight.  Just look at some of the girls Micah brought in.  Finer than frog hair, my man!  Finer than frog hair!"

-

Bernstein came in around nine o'clock—his belly straining the buttons on his dress shirt, his hair combed up over his shining scalp—and started the gathering process.

By then I was sitting in an easy chair near Sergio and Angel—halfway listening to the funky bass lines they were tossing back and forth, halfway drifting in the mental and emotional fog that had been my home base for much of the past year.  Joey had wandered over near Micah shortly after I'd sank into my seat, and when Bernstein came in I looked up to check on them.  They had the Rolling Stone reporter flat on her back on the table, her shirt off and a line of white powder laid out along her stomach from her belly button to just below her sternum.

Joey saw Bernstein coming and dipped his head to her flesh, pressing one nostril closed with his finger, snorting up the line.  He followed the snort with a long lick across the powder residue that had stuck to her skin, and the reporter let out a breathless sort of giggle that I heard above the blaring music.

For a moment that giggle seemed to ring in my ears, high and feminine and seductive.  I thought of the groupies Joey and I had shared—the lovely sounds he'd coaxed out of them with that long, eager tongue—and I felt just the faintest twinge of desire.  If anything, that twinge made me realize how futile my earlier promise to Joey had been.  The drugs I was on were pretty effective at dulling the pain, but they seemed to dull every other feeling too, including lust.  In the year since Lucy died, I hadn't even had a memorable hard-on.

In the end, Bernstein had to physically grab Joey and Micah and drag them away from the half-naked reporter.  A glance and a tilted head was enough to get Sergio moving, and I followed along.  The plan was to be at the venue by nine thirty, and up on the stage an hour after that.  I assumed that Sara would meet us there.

Bernstein brought us out through the front of the hotel, where a crowd of reporters and fans had gathered to gawk and snap pictures.  He must have been feeling a bit more confident about the band's stability—we'd been whisked through hotel backdoors for the last few shows, as if Bernstein had feared that the flash-and-scream barrage would spook us.  As it was, the crowd didn't do much to me—just a blur of faces and voices and panicked, desperate gestures.  I hardly paid it any attention.  I was busy looking for Sara.

Despite the way the last few shows had gone, part of me—a small, delicate part, buried beneath a mountain of indifference—hoped she'd be there, waiting for us, getting in the limo with us to ride to the show.  But when I saw the town car pulled up behind the limo—its lights on bright, its window blacked out—I knew my hopes were futile.  I wouldn't be seeing her until we were all on stage together.