Dissent (3 page)

Oh,
yeah... she was going to be a fun little project.

Three

I
was dead tired, road weary, as I let myself into my apartment.
Touring was one of those things that got old really quickly. And when
it came to metal, you needed to tour. You needed to keep a close
connection with your fan base. They were loyal live show fans. They
wanted to be there, to see you live, to thrash around into each
other. They wanted to leave the show half-deaf, drenched in sweat,
spitting blood, and a hundred bucks poorer from the merch stand.

If
we didn't give them that experience, they would move on to a new act
that would. So unlike the pop bands, we needed to be on the road
forty some-odd weeks a year. Every year. And for the first two years,
it had been the most fun I had ever had in my life. I got to live on
a tour bus with my best friends. We joked and partied, we wrote
songs, we saw more of the country than most people ever will.

But
last year's tour had been hard.

This
one, so far, was torturous. For no good reason. Everything had been
going smoothly. We sold out, the shows went off without a hitch, the
boys and I got along as well as ever.

Maybe
I was just burning out. I needed my own bed. I needed to walk around
on solid ground. I needed a few days put together where I wasn't
Darcy the metal singer. I was just... me.

The
night before had landed us in central New Jersey and the next show
wasn't for another four days... in northern New Jersey. From there we
were taking off down south and across to California before we would
be making our way back to the city. So I had waved at the boys and
told them I would see them in three days.

Because
I needed to unwind.

Otherwise
I was going to start losing my drive to keep going. And I didn't want
to be that person. The woe-is-me jaded rock star. That wasn't me. I
lived off the energy of the crowd. I would lose my mind if I didn't
write music.

Darcy
was my life.

But
Darcy as a person needed a friggen break.

I
hadn't expected to see anyone on the deck. The other penthouse had
been vacant when I moved in and, likely due to the recession, no one
had made the imprudent choice to invest in such an expensive piece of
real estate.

But
apparently Isaiah Meyers was doing very well for himself.

He
didn't look like money. There was a roughness about his face, about
the way he held himself that suggested he was more familiar with a
farm than a board room.

I
thought it was sweet that he announced his presence. It was a breath
of fresh air to care about my modesty when I was used to crowds of
men screaming at me to show them my tits. But the reality was, I had
no reservations about nudity. Maybe it came from sharing a bus with
five guys for years. Maybe it was the rushed wardrobe changes
backstage in front of dozens of roadies and stagehands. I had gotten
over my body shame a long time ago.

Even
as I walked back into my apartment, taking in the overcrowded shelves
with mementos from the road, I couldn't get him out of my mind.

And
not just because he was attractive. He was. All chiseled jaw, his
full lips, his deep
green
eyes. The boy-next door blonde hair was offset with the scruff on his
face. Underneath his slacks and t-shirt his body looked thin, but
strong. But it wasn't his attractiveness I couldn't
shake.
It was the look in his eyes.

He
looked so sad.

It
was such an unsettling thing to see on a man that I felt a tightness
in my chest. What put that look there? A woman? A death? Both?

The
men I was usually around were metal. They turned all their feelings
into anger. They screamed out songs about killing and dying. They
plowed into each other in mosh pits. They found catharsis in the
rage. I don't remember the last time I saw a man look wounded. That
was exactly how Isaiah Meyers looked: like he had been through some
shit and it was eating away at his soul.

I
walked into my bedroom, my huge canopy bed looking plush and
inviting. I went to my closet, reaching in and grabbing a racerback
dress that left my sides exposed down to my hips. You're supposed to
wear one of those bands around your chest in them in case of a slip,
but I forewent it, slipping into a pair of flip-flops and grabbing my
wallet.

I
was knocking on his door a moment later, repeatedly, until I finally
heard him shuffling around his apartment and opening the door.

“Oh,”
he said, standing in the doorway. “Hey.”

His
eyes drifted down slightly taking in, no doubt, the outline of my
breasts in the thin fabric, but his head moved back up more quickly
than most men's would. “Hey,” I smiled. “You don't
mind if I...” I said, ducking down under his arm and walking
into his apartment.

“I
guess not,” he said behind me, his voice sounding amused as he
closed the door behind me.

I
could feel his eyes on me as I walked around, taking in his complete
lack of furnishings and personal items. Like art. Or photographs. Or
even knick knacks. All he seemed to have was a huge CD collection
next to an old-fashioned, but late model, record player that I knew
secretly boasted compartments for CDs, tapes, and an AUX output.

“You're
a big reader, huh?” I asked, running my hands over the spines
of the books on his shelves.

“Yeah,
I guess. I'm not a TV person.”

“These
are all non-fiction,” I said, turning back to him, curiously.

“Yeah,
I guess. I like to... know things I guess.”

“I
know what I'm getting you for a housewarming gift,” I said,
moving toward the only furniture in his living room, a strange
ergonomic reading chair, kicking out of my shoes, and sliding
awkwardly into it.

“What's
that?” he asked, moving over toward his bookcase, crossing his
arms over his chest and watching me.

“A
little Dickens, Bronte, Hardy... maybe even some Poe.”

“Novels?”
he asked, sounding less than enthused.

“Yes,”
I said, reaching my arms up and placing them behind my neck, “novels.
Full of angst and love and heartbreak.” His face seemed
impassive and I rolled my eyes. “Would you read them?”

“For
you?” he asked, a devilish smile toying at his lips. So that's
the way it was. He wanted to fuck me. It wasn't an altogether
shocking realization, but it left a sour taste in my mouth
nonetheless. Was it ever possible to interact with a man without it
being sexual?

“Yes,”
I said, my smile matching his because I can play with the big boys.
And I had a great track record of being the one to come out on top,
“for me.”

His
lower lip dipped into his mouth for a second, coming back shiny and I
found myself fighting the strong urge to walk over there, push him
against the bookcase, and get a taste of him. His arms fell to his
sides as he crossed the floor toward me, grabbing my feet off the
footstool and sitting down on it, resting my bare feet on his thigh.
His hands stayed there, resting on top of my feet, worn and
calloused, as he looked at me.

Oh,
he was good. And my body was reacting. Perhaps more so than was
normal and I took a deep breath, pressing my thighs a little closer
together. But I'd be damned if he bested me that easily. I let my
smile slide away, biting slightly into my lower lip, and sliding my
foot intimately up his thigh, settling down below his hipbone, my toe
just an inch from his crotch.

His
eyes followed the movement and I saw him take a shaky breath before
his eyes slid up my thigh, my torso, then landed on mine. And I saw
the challenge there. The acceptance of my upper hand. Then his hands
took my other foot in them, massaging the tired arches and I felt
myself sink into the sensation.

God,
was there anything hotter than a man who just... gave out foot
massages? It didn't matter if they came with the expectation of sex.
Hell, he was a complete stranger to me and I was half ready to get on
my knees for him if he promised to do the other foot too. I closed my
eyes as he continued working at the sore spots, pulling my leg up
higher as he did.

Then
my hands shot down on the armrests, my eyes flew open. Because I felt
my toe slip into his mouth and I swear it shot off desire into
unexpected nerve endings, up my legs, across my belly, into my arms.
His eyes looked amused on mine. Like he knew. He knew what he was
doing and he knew there was no way it wasn't turning me on. He smiled
around my toe. “Check,” he said with male satisfaction.

I
felt my eyes narrow and I slid my other foot across his pelvis,
feeling the hard line of his cock through his pants and running my
toe across the head. His breath hissed out of his mouth and he
dropped my foot. “And mate,” I said, sitting up and
putting my feet on the floor.

He
surprised me by chuckling, a low rolling sound.

“You
enjoy losing your own game, huh?” I asked, standing up slowly
and moving away.

“Oh,
sweetheart,” he said, turning in his seat to watch me. He
reached up, rubbing at the scruff on the side of his face. “I'm
fine with this being the long game.”

“The
long game, huh?” I asked, moving into his kitchen and running
my hands over the cool counter tops. “I hope you have... thirty
eight weeks to spare.”

“That's...
a very specific amount of time,” he said, getting up and
walking to stand on the other side of his kitchen island.

“That's
how long I am about to be on tour for,” I said, leaning on the
surface. “And since you don't exactly seem like a metal
groupie...”

“Hey
you never know,” he said, smiling in a wicked way that I knew
to distrust. But on his good-ole boy face, I still managed to find it
sweet.

“What
do you do for a living, Isaiah Meyers?” I asked, and he
started, looking surprised by the abrupt change in conversation.

“I
run a company,” he said simply.

“What
kind of company?”

“A
venture capital firm.”

“You're
a venture capitalist? Seriously?” Of course he was. That was
just great. Poetic almost.

His
brow arched up. “Is that a bad thing?”

“It's
just... coincidental is all. So Mr. Venture Capitalist, why bother
wasting your time trying to get me into bed? In a city this big, I'm
sure you could find someone to warm your sheets tonight.”

“Maybe
instant gratification isn't my thing.”

“What
is your thing then?”

“Apparently
it's women who want to fuck Rasputin,” he said, smiling.

I
laughed, shaking my head. “Rasputin believed that the only way
to redemption was through sinning. He was at once very pious and
sexually hedonistic. He and his fellow believers gathered in crypts,
flagellated themselves and each other, and then just... starting
fucking everyone nearby.” I stopped, shaking my head to stop
myself from rambling. “I mean... who wouldn't want to be in on
that?”

“You
have a point,” he said, turning his head to the side. “So...
know of any crypts around here?”

“Nice
try, Cassanova,” I smiled, making my way to the door. “I'm
having a party tomorrow night. It's going to get loud. Yes, I know it
is a Tuesday. No, I don't care if you don't like it,” I said,
opening the door and stepping into the hall. “You're welcome to
drop over and find someone else for your... what would you call it?”
I said, bringing a finger up to my mouth and biting into the nail.
“Oh, yes... your...
short game
.”

I
laughed on my way back to my apartment.

Four

I
actually didn't have a party planned. Which meant I had a helluva lot
of scrambling to do if I wanted to pull one off in less than sixteen
hours.

I'm
not entirely sure what led me to that lie in the first place. Maybe I
just wanted to screw with him. Push my so-called lifestyle in his
face. Maybe I just wanted an excuse to run into him again. Which
seemed wholly unlike me. I wasn't that girl. I wasn't the girl to
make up excuses and plan “accidental” run-ins with a guy
I wanted. I was the girl to show up at his door bare ass naked, push
him inside, and fuck him senseless.