First Impression
Sara Winters
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Sara Winters
All rights reserved
Cover photos:
Model Copyright Alberto Pérez veiga | Dreamstime.com
Electric guitar Copyright Antti Karppinen | Dreamstime.com
He opened his mouth and stopped, like he didn't know what to say. Which was all right. I could tell him as much and that it happened all the time, which it did. Instead, I leaned onto the bar and smiled at him, the corner of my mouth tilting at an angle some magazine or another had said was “a cross between teasing and a promise.” A promise of what, readers were left to imagine.
Something dirty, it was assumed. I'm aware of my reputation. To put it mildly, I've been referred to as the biggest slut of my generation, seconded only by Adam Levine and John Mayer – whose combined reputations have nothing on the trail of broken hearts and angsty songs that have been written in my name. Still, rumors are rumors. In this business, they're just a way to get people talking and then, hopefully, buying. If letting people think I'll screw anything that holds still long enough moves a few thousand units, I'm willing to shrug off the assumptions. Unless, of course, I'm approached by a fan who's had just enough shots during the show to want to try his luck. If the star-struck boy in front of me is any indication, my reputation is about to be put to the test.
In spite of the dark smudges of eyeliner outlining his bright blue eyes and the dark lipstick that defines the edges of his mouth, the guy barely looks old enough to get into the club. I glanced around. Most of the crew has left—except for a couple of roadies hitting on women in the far corner. The rest of the band is long gone, honoring the most eager of the groupies who'd met them at the bar with a little one-on-one time. No witnesses to what will happen tonight. At least, no one the press might believe.
I turned back to the fan. His full lips had settled into an attractive pout and his bare shoulders sagged. The arms sticking out from the ripped sleeves of his tight white shirt were skinny but well-defined. He'd hooked his thumbs into the front of his jeans—even I had to admire his ability to find any space in the stressed fabric that looked painted on—and leaned to one side, his hip barely making a curve from his waist. Chin-length brown hair fell on either side of his face, giving his pale face a haunted quality.
I picked up my beer and drained the last of the room temperature liquid from the mug. Smiling briefly again, I said, “Enjoy the show?”
“It was all right,” he responded. His voice was soft, hesitant. “Bass was off for a couple of songs.”
This brought a real smile to my face. Johnny had been too busy eyeing a couple of women in the front row to give the performance his full attention—one of the drawbacks of playing these small club shows. In our stadium gigs, the audience is merely a mass of dancing, headbanging shadows in the distance, their faces and arms indistinguishable from one another as we flow from one song to the next. After a while, the shows themselves begin to blur together, each sold-out concert feeling as impersonal as the one before and the dozens to come. That's why I like doing these club shows every once in a while. Squeezing together on a low-set stage barely big enough to hold our equipment brings me back to the early days of the band. Getting away from the heavily-promoted stadium shows makes me feel like less a product being pimped by our record company and more like the music is the selling point. Not every member of Feeding on Chaos connects to the smaller shows the same way I do.
“How was I?”
He smirked briefly and lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “You were good. 'Fly High' was better than last week.”
At that, I laughed. The guys had balked at doing the song at an awards show, but the record company had insisted it was the only way to break the top ten singles chart. I hate to admit it, but they'd been right. The song—the real version and the kid-friendly radio edit—had shot up in sales in the past week. Still, I always like to hear from a fan who hates the sanitized versions of our songs as much as I do. That was the price of becoming popular with the mainstream. The same edge that elevated us to the top had to be watered down until it was only the appearance of dark, dangerous rebellion that middle America let the cable stations sell to their kids.
The fan cleared his throat and narrowed his gaze on me. For some reason, the sudden direct gesture made me want to take a step back. Instead, I held my ground and returned his stare. He tilted his chin in my direction before speaking. “Hey, would it be all right if I gave you something?”
My mind immediately screamed yes at the idea of a hand job or something more. It's been far too long and all this small-talk has done nothing to dampen my original impression of him: an ambitious fan who wants to get as close to a band he likes as he can. Besides, I'm not a prude. I've had my share of private moments with fans. This one's just attractive enough to hold my interest for more than a few moments. And it only took one question from him to get me to picture his lips wrapped around my cock.
I stood from the bar stool and stuck my hands in the pockets of my jeans; my subtle way of trying to draw attention away from my growing interest, at least until I can get him alone. “Sure,” I said. “You can give me whatever you want.”
“Not here,” he said quickly. He glanced around the club. His hair flopped into his eyes as he turned back to me. He brushed it back with two quick flicks of his fingers. “Is there somewhere we can go?”
I nodded. The club manager probably won't care who I bring to our cramped dressing area at this point, unless we leave a mess. I glanced at my watch. Quarter to one. They'll be closing in a little more than hour. Just enough time to get what I need. I began walking towards the area set aside for us backstage. I suspect the room used to be a storage room the club cleaned out so local acts would have a place to relax before their sets begin. The room's furnishings were limited to a sofa and a couple of wooden chairs along the right wall, a table flush against the other wall and a mini fridge in the far corner. A small battered stereo with a broken antenna was in the middle of the table.
I entered the room first and turned to see him pushing the door closed, his fingers slipping to push the lock in the center of the handle. When he turned back to me, he reached behind his back and pulled out a jewel case. Some part of me immediately deflated. Certainly, the interest I'd been trying to hide from the few people left in the bar had lost a bit of its enthusiasm. Maybe the signals I thought I'd been getting from him were all in my mind, aided by the energy drain of the show and the two beers afterward. Fuck, I hate being wrong about these things.
“Does that thing work?” He gestured to the stereo.
I shrugged. “Not sure. We didn't bother with it before the show.”
He held the case out to me. “Do you mind?”
I shrugged again and took the case from him, turning towards the stereo. This is bullshit. Not that I mind when fans want to play a demo for me, but I'd been hoping to experience a different kind of release. Fans who put too much stock in the Damon Carter stamp of approval chap my ass, anyway. They either don't have enough confidence in themselves to be halfway decent musicians or they think my approval means I'll help them and whatever sorry-ass band they've been fucking around with. I don't have it in me to tell this guy to fuck off, though. Don't want to disappoint a fan, right? I'll listen to the song, nod in right places, grab another beer and go back to the hotel. Maybe by that point I won't be too horny to sleep.
I closed the CD player and watched the disc spin for a few seconds before hitting the play button. The song began with the rhythm guitarist playing a 4-3 progression. The rest of the band came in, settling into a riff starting at E. I found myself nodding along as the music slowed and the singer began; the lyrics were something about finding a lost part of yourself. Song's not bad. After a few moments, I realized the low voice filling the room was from the guy behind me.
I turned and found myself in the fan's arms, our lips nearly touching. Close like this, his eyes were the color of the sky in spring, his lashes long and thick. His fingers danced at my waist. I could feel the heat of him warm my skin through my shirt. He pressed our hips closer and my interest returned ten-fold.
“I want to give you something else,” he said before bringing our lips together. Before I could second-guess what he was doing, my lips had parted and I was welcoming him into me, a subconsciouss part of my brain drawing on the lyrics—connection and awakening and the careful dance of a new beginning—as our mouths moved together.
His fingers fumbled with the button on my jeans and he eased them open; warm fingers enclosed me and began a slow squeezing. He pulled away from our kiss and met my eyes again with that intense stare. “Do you like it?”
“Yes,” I said, not sure if he knew I meant the song, the hand job and the very real possibility of a lot more.
“I wanted it to be more polished,” he said. His hand picked up speed and squeezed tighter around my shaft. “Didn't have the money to pay for more studio time. Rhythm guitarist hadn't shown up so I ended up playing his part, bass and singing the lead. The singer we've got now is pretty good, so we'll probably end up recording the demo again with him.”
My head fell back as he sank onto his knees. “I like it the way it is,” I said. His low voice, full of longing and promise, filled the room in a resonating high note as he took me into his mouth. Long, hard pulls forced me to lock my knees in place. Blood rushed to where his mouth met my skin, heat where his hands held my hips in place; I felt a little light-headed.
My cock dropped from his mouth and he looked up, his eyes wide as he licked his lips. “I'm David, by the way.”
Before I could say something trite—“Nice to meet you” or “So glad you came” came to mind—his lips parted and I closed my eyes, thoughts racing. The end of this leg of the tour is coming up. We need a new band to open when we make the trek down the east coast. Something about David makes me think my hasty offer will be met with enthusiasm.
I smiled and ran my fingers through his soft hair. I'm definitely going to enjoy the rest of this tour.
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