The Song Remains the Same (12 page)

“What do you feel like doing?” I asked.

“Whatever my Baby Girl wants. I was thinkin’ we could just stay in tonight, order room service,” he casually mentioned.

“That sounds good.”

“You feel up to some shoppin’? I need to get some more clothes.”

“I thought that’s what Sheri was for.”

“Yeah, but she’s got a shitload of other things to take care of, and I wanna go out with my Baby Girl.”

“You mean, you want to take
me
shopping.”

“Maybe. I like buyin’ you stuff. Is that so wrong?”

“No.” I sighed and smiled. “I guess we could do that.”

Four hours later, we were opening the door to our hotel room with two roadies following behind us, carrying at least fifteen shopping bags. I was exhausted, and my brain was numb. After shopping trips like the one I had just endured, I felt as though my IQ had dropped.

Phil was extremely happy, having bought me all sorts of stuff—mostly black, lacy unnecessary items that would just disintegrate under his hot gaze and a few swishy peasant skirts, tank tops, and fancy leather flip-flops—that cost in excess of three thousand dollars. It was to be expected when we’d ended up at the high-end shopping outlets in New York City.

Phil had bought me a new digital camera for shits and giggles. He’d also gotten me an iPod, which he’d gleefully announced he was going to fill up sometime before checkout tomorrow.

The roadies dropped off the bags and headed out. I dropped my ass into the closest chair and groaned from my throbbing feet.

“What’s up?” he asked, picking up the electronics bag and heading for his laptop.

“My feet. I fucking hate shopping.”

Phil dropped the bag next to the laptop and turned around. He scooped me up and laid me down on the bed. He lifted off my flip-flops and tossed them to the floor.

“Was it torture for you?” He started gently kneading his thumbs into the sole of one foot.

“Oh my God…” I groaned, closing my eyes.

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“You were so happy. I didn’t want to spoil it for you.”

Phil had some seriously strong hands.

“You know, if this whole singing thing doesn’t work out for you, you could have a promising career as a massage therapist,” I told him.

“You’ve got the most adorable feet. I like your toe rings. You never take them off, do you?”

“Nope,” I replied, making a popping noise on the P.

“Why not?”

“The one on my right foot, my mom gave me on my sixteenth birthday. The one on my left was hers. When she passed away, I put it on. Sort of like having her with me every step of the way.”

“That’s kind of…beautiful.” His thumbs found the knots and pushed deep and smooth, easing into the pressure.

“How did you get so good at this?” I moaned.

“I don’t know. I guess I’m just tryin’ to do what you do when you massage me.”

“You’re fucking brilliant.”

“Vicariously so,” he retorted.

The man massaged me for a full thirty minutes. All the muscles in my feet felt like they’d turned into melted butter.

“Better?”

“Oh gods, yes. Thanks, babe.”

From the foot of the bed, he crawled up and over me, settling between my thighs. Holding his weight up on his forearms, he dropped a sweet kiss on my lips.

“Are you excited for tomorrow?” he asked.

“Hell yeah, I am!” I replied, grinning. “It’s been a while since I went to a Festivus Tour. And my favorite band of all time is headlining. It’s gonna fucking
rock.
”

He kissed me again. “You’re such a fan, Baby Girl.”

I held up my right hand, index finger pointing up. “Number one. I’m their number one fan.”

He ground his thickening groin against me. “Oh, yeah?”

“Mmhmm…”

“You got a huge crush on one of them, don’t you?”

“Extremely huge.”

“Which one?”

“Well…I like ’em dark…”

“Uh-huh.”

“And well built.”

“Mmhmm…”

“And Mexican with pierced cocks—augh!”

Phil’s fingers dug into my ribs, wriggling ferociously. “You take that back, woman!”

“Never!” I squealed. “My heart pines for the little shit of a drummer!”

To compound the tickling, Phil dug his stubbly face into the soft flesh of my neck, rubbing vigorously.

“Ah! Okay! Okay!”

He ceased immediately and scowled at me. “Who then? Who’s your favorite?”

“The golden Adonis who plays lead guitar!” Tortuous tickling continued until I cried, “Uncle!”

“Who’s your favorite, woman?”

I sobered up, looking into his soulful eyes. “You. You’re my one and only.”

Groaning, he pressed his hot open mouth to mine, his tongue slipping in and rubbing sensuously. It was a kiss meant to ignite lust and passion. Every nerve ending inside me lit up and tingled.

“Do you feel it, too?” I asked breathlessly.

“I’m forever on fuckin’ fire for you,” he replied, going in for another mouth-tangling. “It’s never enough, and each time is better than the last.”

Sweaty, sticky, stinky, I had hoped to shower before getting freaky, but Phil had other ideas. Somehow, my clothes ended up peeled off, and then by some miracle, his simply melted away and resurfaced in a pile on the floor.

Dark Sex God of the Universe knelt between my spread thighs, his hands gently caressing up them. With his sun-kissed bronze flesh inked with my name and rippling muscles, Phil had one of the most incredible male physiques, he was just so fucking stunning.

And he was
mine
.

“You’re so beautiful, Kenna,” he said softly. “I can hardly believe I’m allowed to touch this,
you
…”

“That pretty much sums up how I feel about you,” I told him.

He held out his hands to me, and I took them. He pulled me up to straddle his thighs. Lifting me by my rump with one arm, he used the other hand to position himself, and I sank slowly down the length of him. His eyes held mine the entire slide, burning and intense.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispered. “Like home.”

My ass in his hands, he lifted me up and pushed me down the length of him again and again and again.

“Hold me tight, Kenna,” he growled. “
Everywhere
.”

Arms wrapped around his shoulders, I clenched around his cock and held it.

“Oh, fuuuck…” Phil’s hips punched each time he brought me down, his pubic bone rubbing into my clit just right.

The orgasm began to boil through me, bubbling up, spilling over. Heart hammering, fingers digging into his muscles, I sank my teeth into the skin at the base of his neck.

“Harder!” he yelled. “I wanna wear it!”

Faintly, the coppery taste of blood touched my taste buds, and I drew back in shock. “Babe…”

But he had hit his own peak, his head dropping back. “
Kenna
!” he cried out, hands grasping my ass in a hard grip, pulling me against him. The head of his cock pushed a zinging pain through my cervix as it pulsed wickedly inside me. “Fuck!”

Phil collapsed backward onto the bed, breathing harshly. The impact jabbed his still hard cock even further into my cervix, making me wince.

“You’re bleeding a little,” I told him.

He grunted in reply as his chest heaved, and he struggled to catch his breath.

“We should clean that, babe—”

“Hush, Baby Girl. I’m…I’m fuckin’ enjoyin’ this.”

“But—”

“In a minute,” he grunted again. “That was…so fuckin’…
hot.
”

“You’re a freak!” I laughed.

“Yeah, I know.” He sucked in another deep breath. “I don’t know why, but when you do shit like that…I fuckin’ come so hard. I love it.”

Gathering me into his chest, he sighed happily. His hands roamed along my back and up again.

“You wanna shower?” he asked, his voice soft with contentment.

“That’d be great.”

“You know I’m gonna spend the rest of the day and possibly all night fuckin’ you, right?”

“I figured as much.”

“Are you complainin’?”

“Nope.”

“That’s my Baby Girl.”

NOLA’s Junk had released their new album,
Homecoming
, two weeks before the start of the tour. As with every other one of their albums, I’d arrived at the music store to buy it as soon as they’d opened. Some might think that I was a weirdo, considering I had one of the original recordings in its clear plastic case, signed by all five of the band members. But I had a tradition with Our Boys, and Alys and Lili had joined me, so we each could buy our own copy.

Homecoming
was a masterpiece.

There were twelve songs, and each one was a personal favorite of mine in some way—even “Louisiana Baby,” catchy little pop song that it was. They had taken their sound and developed it beyond anything anyone had heard before. It was heavy, dark, hauntingly beautiful, unique, and above all, ingenious.

Much anticipated, it had debuted at number seven and skyrocketed to number one the following week. Ticket sales for the Twisted Festivus Tour had sold out in major cities after that. The first concert of the tour at Bethel Woods was no exception, selling out fifteen thousand tickets.

“Shit, it’s hot!” Alys complained before chugging half of a mega-sized beer. “And before either of you say”—her voice inflected to a high-pitched whine—“it’s a dry heat, it’s still fucking hot.”

“No shit,” I replied, unleashing a huge belch. I was chugging, too. Hot beer was gross, and it was as frosty as it was ever going to be.

Quickly following my own, Lili’s burp defied logic and possibly ripped the fabric of the universe. A group of guys parked on their asses in front of us turned to admire our unladylike superpowers. The three of us grinned at them, wholly unashamed to be buzzing at noon.

Crap stage, day one, the first band was god-awful and appeared prepubescent—not that age had anything to do with it, but talent seemed scarce. All these bands were locals looking for their big break. Most of them would be utter shit. It was to be expected. Not everyone could be blessed like Our Boys, whose first serious public appearance had thrown them onto the path of stardom.

“I’m going to need more mental lubricant if we’re expected to sit here and listen to this sort of garbage,” Alys stated. “You guys need more beer?”

“Yes, please,” Lili and I chorused.

Watching her retreating form, Lili sighed. “We’re gonna be tanked soon.”

“It’s cool. It’s Festivus.”

“Ha-ha! Yeah.”

By the time we finished what we had, Alys was back with fresh ones. The second band wasn’t any better, even with the second mega-beer.

“I’m starting to think our boyfriends don’t really like us,” I huffed. “This is audio torture. Are my ears bleeding?”

“No,” said Alys.

“Can you shove your pen in them, so they do?”

Lili cracked up, snapping some photos.

“Can we at least check out another stage?” Alys asked. “I mean, we don’t have to sit here the whole damn time, do we? My musically appreciative soul is starting to wither and die.”

We ended up giving the third band a chance, but then we left after their first song. Enough was enough, damn it. We were desperate to listen to something halfway decent. My guilt over not doing my job got the better of me though, and I called Phil to make sure we wouldn’t be in too much trouble.

“Hey, Baby Girl.”

“Garbage!” I barked. “We can’t take it anymore! All of them were absolute garbage, babe!”

“Are you drunk?” he asked, sounding both alarmed and somewhat amused.

“We thought some beer might help, but noooo. The first three bands made me want to shove sharp objects in my ears. We’re heading to the second stage for a break. Is that cool? I mean, are you guys going to be pissed off if we abandon our post or something? Because we’re seriously debating how much you all really love us, forcing us to listen to that shit—”

“You don’t have to sit there the whole time. Just enjoy the festival, and if you hear something good, get their info.”

“Seriously? ’Cause I was under the impression that we were here to find unsigned decent bands.”

“You are, but it’s not like we’re gonna force you to sit in one spot. You sure you ain’t drunk?”