No Quarter (NOLA's Own #2) (37 page)

The stool Phil had been sitting on scraped against the floor as he stood. “What the fuck?”

“You didn’t hear what these bitches were saying about your Baby Girl?” Jason asked, causing the female population in the room to gasp in shock. He pointed at the fairy. “She-beast, right? You were really proud of yourself for that one. Witchy Kristy, you actually called her a transgender, yeah?”

Witchy Kristy looked ready to vomit.

Hooking his thumb over at the nurse skank, Jason continued, “Nurse Tracy called Alys, Kenna, and Lili a circus freak–dyke show or some such shit. Shame on you, Tracy, for using such a negative slur against same-sex threesomes. They’re beautiful things to witness.”

Phil wanted me to look at him, wanted me to show him that I was okay, and I resisted—I really did—but…I was powerless when it came to him. When my eyes finally met his, he saw the shattered, hurting little girl I had once been. I had to close my eyes against it.

“Oh, no…” he whispered. He tripped over to me, kicking furniture out of his way. “No, no, no, no.” His voice sounded broken. “Oh, Kenna—” he gasped. His strong warm hands came up and cupped my throat—one sliding to the back of my neck. “Open your eyes. Oh, please, please, no…”

Those absolute cunts, ruining this for us! This was supposed to be an amazing night for all of us.

“Get these cunts out of here!” Phil roared at someone behind us, plucking the exact word from my thoughts.

“What?”

“No!”

“You
can’t
—”

“He just did,” said Jason with particular viciousness. “And the rest of us don’t want you fouling up the air our women breathe. Tiny, get these bitches out of here. They fuckin’ made Alys cry. If they’ve fucked up her awesome little face—”

“Come on, ladies,” said a deep voice I assumed belonged to a man named Tiny.

“Don’t fuckin’ call them ladies,” snapped X scathingly. “They don’t deserve that title.”

I felt Alys pulling from my grasp as I heard her choking back on her sobs.

“Kenna…” Phil was pleading. “My other half, my beautiful, beautiful Baby Girl. Please, look at me. Open your eyes…”

Sucking in a calming deep breath, I opened my eyes for him, meeting his gaze. His eyes reflected a world of hurt, but he smiled at me anyway.

“There you are,” he whispered.

Letting out a shaky breath, I attempted to smile in return. “Hey.”

“Hey. They’re gone, and they ain’t comin’ back, I promise.”

“Okay.”

He nodded and smiled, and I noticed his face was clean-shaven, his skull makeup only partially done.

I smiled in return. “You’re half-naked, babe.”

His smile now dimpled, and I realized I had missed the sight of them with his beard.

“You told me to have my tramp stamps out for everyone to see.”

“Yeah.” I laughed.

His eyes lit up and sparkled.

He pulled back slightly, looking over my face paint. “Wow. You look stunnin’. Are you all sugared up for
me
?”

“Who else?”

“Fuck me, but I wanna kiss you bad.”

“Don’t you dare!” I laughed.

He stared at my mouth for a moment before asking, “Are you all right?”

“I am now,” I replied.

“I’m so sorry.”

I shook my head. “It just took me by surprise. I don’t know why. Sheri did warn us.”

I glanced down and saw he had the top of his pants unbuttoned, riding dangerously low on his hips, his pubes shaved down enough to see his last tramp stamp displayed in full glory.

“Damn, babe. You knew I was joking about that, right?”

“Nope.” He laughed.

“You’re not wearing underwear?”

“Nope.”

“Damn,” I sighed, cracking him up.

His hands slid down my body, wrapping around me, drawing me into him. Our torsos pressed tightly together, we both leaned back, so we could look into each other’s eyes. He smelled clean and spicy, his skin pulsing heat through my skirt, making my tits ache.

“Phil?” came a timid small voice from the corner of the room.

He closed his eyes in resignation, exhaling slowly. “Yeah, Camryn?”

“I need to get you finished up,” she stated. “Almost done. I promise.”

He turned his head and smiled at her. “Okay.”

I pulled out of his arms and looked at Camryn myself. She smiled at me.

“Your makeup is amazing, Kenna. Who did it?”

“Uh…Karen Schaffer and Jenny Thompson.”

Camryn’s jaw dropped. “Shut the fuck up! How’d you get them? They’re like the two most sought-after artists!”

“No idea.” I laughed. “Ask Sheri.”

“Wow! I’m jealous!”

Phil took my hand and tugged me toward the vanity, wanting my company as Camryn finished applying his makeup. As he sat down, he positioned me behind him and draped my arms over his shoulders, holding my hands against his heart.

Something flashed in Camryn’s eyes, and then it was gone before I could read into it.

We engaged in mild chitchat while she applied the paint onto Phil’s face, but I was only half-listening. The rest of my brain was taking in the sight of my friends hanging out and enjoying each other’s company. Jason had pulled Sheri onto his lap, and she was giggling, looking beautiful and carefree. Flipper and Vivian were cracking up with X and Alys, whose eyes had dried but had a lingering sadness in them. Lili was showing Lewis the photos of us, but he was watching her animated face rather than the digital screen.

“There you go.” Camryn smiled into Phil’s eyes.

He turned and looked into the vanity mirror. “Sweet! Thanks, Camryn.”

“Anytime,” she replied.

I felt that there was more weight behind that word than what Phil could hear.

“If we hurry, we can catch the last few songs of Black Prophecy’s set,” said Phil. He stood up, buttoned his Dickies, and grabbed my hand. “Come on, guys!”

Hurrying through the plethora of corridors and people, Phil led us backstage where we ran into Robin and Tara, who clapped and bounced when they spotted us. They threw their arms around us. We watched Black Prophecy crank out their greatest singles.

The whole time, Phil kept his arms wrapped around me, holding my back to his chest. I realized he meant to do the show shirtless, showing the world his blazing chest tattoo. There were nearly twenty-thousand screaming fans out there, and many thousands—if not
millions
—would be watching it on television.

Their set ended, and Black Prophecy exited the stage, jubilant and amped up. Spotting Our Boys, they whooped and exchanged man hugs and back slaps.

“Ready to tear LA a new one?” asked Stephen. “The crowd is on
fi-yah!”

Phil laughed. “Always!”

Around us, the tech crew scrambled to get the stage set up for NOLA’s Junk, and the air crackled with the collective excitement of twenty-thousand souls. Phil started bouncing, jumping in place, warming up. His ghoulish face was set with a perma-grin, and the rest of the guys started to do their own warm-up routines.

Lili ran around, snapping pictures, totally in her element.

Sheri, Alys, Vivian, and I gave the guys the room they needed as we huddled off into a corner that gave us an awesome view of the stage and the massive audience.

Minutes to go, a sound tech handed Phil a mic and ran off.

Phil stretched out his neck, back, and his arms, jumping up and down a few more times. He caught me staring at him and smiled. Running up to me, his energy flooding off of him in pulsing waves, he grabbed me and lifted me, hugging me tight.

“I wanna kiss you,” he told me, “but I’ll wait until you don’t care if I fuck up your makeup.”

Laughing, I replied, “I appreciate your patience.”

“Gotta go.” He set me on my feet.

“Go! I wanna see my favorite band in action!”

The rest of the guys were already in position, the stage blacked out.

“Love you,” he said before running off toward the stage. Stopping at the edge, he flicked on the mic and growl-screamed into it
.

The crowd went apeshit, and the stage exploded with blinding bright white light. The roar became deafening, rising in a swell that lifted me with it. Seeing the whole thing from this point of view was mind-boggling.

Phil, at the head of it all, was simply stunning to behold. He goaded the crowd, spurred them on, screaming and belting out the lyrics, encouraging them to scream and sing with him. He glistened with sweat, his hair slipping out of the man bun, strands of it plastered to his face paint. He headbanged, bounced, and leaped all over the stage.

“Los Angeles!” he roared after their third song. “Are you enjoying yourself this evening?”

The united voice of twenty-thousand people crashed over the stage, vibrating its way through everything.

“I sure as shit hope so!” He laughed.

Since the concert was televised on paid cable, cursing was okay, but it should be kept to a minimum. Fat chance at that really. But this wasn’t one of NOLA’s Junk’s typical concerts. Phil was known for his crowd interaction, and there just wasn’t the time for it. They had an hour-long set, which wasn’t long enough for them, and they had to fill nearly every minute with their music.

Their final song was to be their latest single, “Louisiana Baby
.
” As the last ten minutes of the set came up, they ended “A Fist to the Face,” and Phil shoved the mic into the stand.

“So, we got this song…” he started to say.

Once more the audience intensified with cheers, and he laughed.

“Yeah, I guess y’all know what I’m talkin’ about. Well, we got this little song, and it really is just this humble man beggin’ for his woman to wait for him just a little while longer until he can get his ass back home to her.”

Phil looked off to the side, straight into my eyes, and he smiled his Lady Killer.

“Can y’all guess what happened?”

Louder, the audience roared its approval.

“My Baby Girl…she held out. She waited for my ugly ass to show up. And she’s here tonight.”

What the fuck is he doing?

My heart slammed against my rib cage, and panic flooded my veins. I shook my head and took a step back. Sheri steadied me with a hand on my lower back.

Phil nodded. He turned back to the audience. “Y’all wanna meet my Baby Girl?”

“She’s a hell of a woman,” goaded Jason on his mic. He twanged a little ditty on his guitar. “I think they should. It would show them all that you mean what you say, Phil.”

“I agree,” replied Phil. Looking back over at me again, he smiled and raised his hand. “Come on out, woman. I got some friends who wanna meet you.”

I shook my head again, little white dots appearing before my eyes.

“You’re too cute.” He laughed. “She’s a little shy, guys. Let’s make her feel welcome, yeah?”

The crowd exploded.

Sheri gave me a shove. “Don’t leave him hanging!”

I took one tentative step forward, trying desperately not to vomit in front of twenty-thousand people. Another step—shit, were my legs shaking. They felt like rubber. I stared at Phil’s proffered hand, concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other until I could reach out and touch his fingers. He pulled me into his sweat-slicked body.

His other hand on the mic stand, he smiled down at me in front of this immense crowd of people. “Hey.”

Cheers were closing in on us.

“Say hi to everyone.” He turned the mic at me.

“H-hello.” My trembling husky voice echoed outward.

The audience howled with joy.

“Everyone, say hi to the woman who stole my heart so long ago and who is the inspiration for our next song.”

The entire multitude flooded me with greetings of howls and cheers and screams.

How the hell does he do this? I’m about to pass out! Or puke! Or both!

However, the energy flooding over us was so positive that it filled me and lifted me. Suddenly, I understood how he could simply walk out before them and do his dream. I might not have the balls or talent to do what Our Boys did, but being up there with him like this…I could certainly see how he could. It was exhilarating!

X hit off the smooth bass line, Flipper picked up the heartbeat, and I realized that Phil meant to perform this with
me onstage
.

Holy shit!

His arm slipped around my waist, and he steadied me, holding my rubbery ass up, as I clung to him for the strength I needed to stay up here at all.

“A hot summer’s end found you in my arms…”

For the love of all that is holy…

“I knew then my soul had never been my own. My sweetest dream, you had me in your grip. I’d never be lost again, I had found my only home. Yet still, out of my world you tripped…”

He really was singing it
to
me, his sex-inducing baritone caressing out the simple words. His eyes never left mine, and I stood firmly, filled with his passion and strength. At one point, he released me to stand on my own, and he could sing the screaming bits without having to do so in my face. It was an intense performance for the audience, but he wasn’t performing to me. He was honestly sharing the pain he had gone through, the desperation he had felt in trying to make sure I would wait for him.

All I could do was stand there and watch, both loving and hating the parts where he lost it, bending in half, screaming into the microphone, the tortured madman. Toward the end, the song slowed down sweetly. He took my hand and pressed my palm to The Tattoo, his real heart pounding beneath it.

“You’re my peace, my sanctuary, my home. Can you feel me?”

I nodded, and he smiled.

“No more waitin’, your soul is callin’ to me.”

Did he change the lyrics beforehand, or is this all sort of an ad-libbed thing going on? It’s brilliant, either way.

“Not since the day I found you again, Baby Girl, have I been anythin’ other than free…”

Hugging me close, he held the mic away from us and whispered in my ear, “I love you, Kenna. Thank you.”

“What for?” I whispered back, clinging to him, pressing myself as close as possible, his sweat soaking through my shirt.

“For everything. Think you can walk offstage now?”

I nodded, and he pulled back and smiled.