Page 19 of Erik

I crack my eyes open to focus on something to cool my mind before my tenting pants become an embarrassment. Big mistake. She hunches over the guitar, focused on her movements, oblivious to her surroundings, and she’s never looked sexier to me. I’d love to lick that spot on her lower lip she’s chewing right now.

I could get used to this.

More blood rushes to my cock obliterating rational thoughts as I sink back into the overstuffed cushions of the couch, squeezing my eyes shut again. I palm my crotch seeking a minimum of comfort. She sings the second half of an old song of mine about shackles, whips, and lacy masks, and I’m down for the count.

A body slams against my groin, palms press the sides of my head with eager urgency. My heart thumps against my chest giddy that Christine’s changed her mind, believing she’s ready to step on the wild side.

When a mouth covers mine, and a tongue slides past my lips, a foul taste burns my throat.What the fuck?

Popping my eyes open, I shove Rita off my lap, growling through gritted teeth, “What the fuck are you doing?”

From the floor of the trailer, where her bony ass has landed without grace, she covers her mouth with her fingers, and sneers, “Oops.” She tips her head toward the open door, “Guess your little white dove couldn’t stand the heat and took flight.”

As I spring from the sofa, I grab the vase Christine left behind, hurling it across the trailer. It smashes against a cupboard, raining shards around the confined space.

Razing Rita with a stare, I spit the words, “Don’t be here when I come back.”

I sprint through the door, taking off toward the parking lot. In the distance, Christine’s red curls trail behind her as she jogs to her motorcycle. I speed up, when she straddles the damn bike without pausing to adjust the guitar case on her back.

My insides twist at the idea she thinks I’ve kissed another woman while she played my fucking song. I’d never betray her like that. I’m not that kind of monster. With a parched throat, I swallow hard, and reach out my hand as if it could bridge the gaping couple of yards between us.

Wishing to yell in frustration, I end up murmuring her name, “Christine.”

The hoarse, broken whisper gets the roar of the bike’s powerful engine for reply.

Still running, I gasp when she pulls down a helmet, and kicks up the metal stand, burning rubber on her tottering escape from me.

I halt. In a pathetic attempt, I close my hands around my mouth, and shout into the wind, “Christine, don’t leave me.”

What am doing?This is sheer madness, I press my palms to my ears, bending at the waist.

Dropping my arms, I straighten up, and ball my hands into fists. I watch her weave through cars and trucks, knees almost touching the dirty asphalt, as if a swarm of bats from hell chased after her.

Waves of heat melt the ice in my veins as heartache becomes defiance. I need to snap out it because I’m going through this the wrong way. Exclusivity isn’t my strong suit. I’m a fucking rock star.

I swirl around and head back to the trailer with long strides. A woman isn’t worthy of my time, if she can’t handle sharing me with fans, or another woman.

A pang bites the inside of my chest, and I huff. I glance about to make sure I’m alone, adding under my breath, “It’s always been this way. Nothing’s changed.”

There’s only one person who’s made me change, and that’snotMs. Christine Daae.

***

Unable to focus on the computer screen, I fidget with a bottle of beer in my hand. With an index finger holding its mouth, I spin it, the amber liquid sloshing at the bottom.

“Hmm, sir?” A shy voice floats in the distance. I blink and gaze at the screen, where a wide-eyed production assistant stares back at me, expectant. I arch an eyebrow. “The date, sir. Does it work for you?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I grunt into the headset I wear for this fucking video meetings.

The other ten people in the call point out, at the same time, they can’t hear a word I’ve just said.

I check the bottom of my screen and roll my eyes. I press the unmute button, grumbling, “Fuck this shit. What about the date?”

The young brunette smiles. “The new release date for the film. The studio had to push most of its schedule up a few months. But if you, the band,” she waves a hand in front of the camera, as if we were all sitting in a fucking meeting room instead of scattered around the globe, “feel strongly about it, I’ll see what my office can do in terms of pressing them to reconsider the change.”

I scoff at her naïveté, followed by a sneer from Logan, and a dry ‘right’ muttered by Wes. But before I can slash the woman’s innocence in half, Nick weighs in, with a large grin. “It’s kind of you to offer that, Maggie; but we’re fine with the new date.”

Wes adds, “And by fine, he means, we hate it. We’ve got a new album releasing soon, and a supporting world tour to plan, and this fucking new release date for the movie has just thrown a truckload of sand in those gears.”

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