Page 122 of Beneath the Burn

“Tell you what, Kevin. Give Faye your contact information, and I’ll ship you a signed copy of every album we’ve produced. Okay?” He held out the broken CDs he’d collected.

The baggie dangled from Kevin’s trembling fingers, waiting.

Just beyond the bathroom door, Charlee was peeing under Nathan’s watchful gaze. Motherfuck, he wanted to punch something. If he hadn’t lost his shit, he would’ve been in there with her instead of her donkey-fucking hero.

In a few short minutes, Jay would be singing to thousands. So much pressure. So many people. So many notes to fuck up. And he hadn’t slept since the nap on the plane the prior day. What if he glanced at his fingers on the fret too long and Charlee disappeared from view? He was strung so tight, he wouldn’t make it through the first song without breaking down.

Forty migs of Oxycontin would give him a little lift. Buzzy enough to smooth his edginess, but not too potent to steal his vigilance over her.

With a peek at Tony’s back, he slipped the bag from Kevin’s fingers as he dumped the CDs into his hands. “Find Faye, our manager. And I’m sorry about the shove. And stepping on your fingers.”

Kevin jumped up. “No worries. Thanks so much, Mr. Mayard.”

No worries. Good one. Pacing in front of the bathroom door, Jay checked the number stamps on the pills. Nice thing about Oxycontin was there were no real side effects as long as he managed his use. He wasn’t an addict so there was no harm in this one pill. Charlee didn’t even need to know about it.

A twinge of guilt lodged in his throat. He swallowed it back and chased it with a yellow forty and white twenty-five.

In twenty minutes, he would be ready to rockatize the arena.

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The bounce and sway of twenty thousand concert-goers electrified the air, sparking off Charlee’s body and lifting her skin with goose pimples. The sea of waving arms and camera phones flickered through the stands as far as she could see. They probably would’ve fought each other for her seat. Guaranteed the owners of the dozen or so eyes burning into her back would have.

She wouldn’t let the groupies barricaded in the wing ruin the moment. It wasn’t her fault they weren’t allowed on the stage. Jay told her where to sit, she sat, and no one questioned him.

She perched on a bass cabinet on the stage deck. If the fans in the front row squinted at the shaded edge, they might’ve seen her. And despite their chanting pleas, Jay refused to emerge from the shadowed recess beside her.

The panorama of the boys on stage, glistening with sweat and jamming in tune with a house of energetic people, sent a tingling rush through her body. Experiencing the most popular bands of her time perform feet away would stay with her forever.

Through the first two songs, Jay sang while facing her, hands in the pockets of his leather pants. The rhythmic flow of his voice penetrated her chest, deepened by the fix of his gaze. His timbre reverberated through the sound system to thousands of idolizers, yet the arousing way he moved his lips behind his headset microphone, never looking away from her, it felt as though she were his only audience.

He ended the second song on a series of erotic exhales and she felt those breaths low in her core and warm in her cheeks. He must have sensed her reaction because he winked. Lord have mercy, he was a sexy man with a killer vocal range, and if she weren’t mistaken, he was enjoying himself. A startling contrast from the hot-tempered barbarian twenty minutes earlier.

As the band transitioned into the third song, a roadie waved to Jay from downstage and held out a guitar. Jay ignored him and took advantage of the reprieve in vocals by stepping between her legs.

Movement on the stage glinted light across his brown eyes. He reached out and trailed his fingers down her arm, around her hip, made the short trip over her skirt, and under the hem.

What the hell was he doing? The arena thundered with Rio’s percussional lead and the spunky pluck of Wil’s bass. The roadie with the guitar frantically waved his arm at Jay.

“What are you doing?” she mouthed.

He pushed his fingers between her legs, separating her thighs and curling them inside the crotch of her panties. His eyes looked…off. Out of focus maybe. Was it nerves? Arousal?

Two fingers breached her opening, sliding in, to the knuckles. Her breath caught and her knees fell open as far as the skirt would allow. Desire pulsed where he stretched her, lubricating his entry. She buried her mouth in her shoulder, unsure if her moan would be picked up by his mic.

One thrust…two….three. His hand disappeared, leaving her empty and panting. He stepped toward the panicking roadie, working those leather pants simply by walking backward, smoothly and confidently. He wiggled his fingers at her and she desperately wanted them back.

She wiped the sheen of perspiration from her cleavage with the heel of her hand. Holy hell, it was hot in here.

Screams piped from the women leaning over the gate at the front of the stage. They must have glimpsedThe Burn’s reclusive singer. Heads bobbed and swerved as if trying to score the best view. When the squeals threatened to drown out the instruments, sheknewthey had seen him.

Accepting his guitar and strapping it over his body, Jay still hadn’t released her gaze. An odd smile quirked his lips. Then he stepped from the shadows and into the edge of the stage lights.

The crowd exploded in hopping bodies and piercing shrieks. His stage appearance excited Charlee as much as the fans, but what had prompted him to cross that barrier? Was he showing off for her? Doing it because she wanted him to? Perhaps his new freedom from triggers gave him the confidence? Her fingernails bit into the cabinet beneath her as she waited to see what he would do next.

The guys must have doubled or tripled the length of the instrumental intro because they were still playing, following Jay’s lead. The guitar solo waned, and Laz arched a brow at his vocalist.

Jay missed it, his eyes on her. Raising his two wet fingers, he pumped them in and out of his mouth. The crowd shrilled, seemingly unconcerned that his head was turned sideways, eyes focused offstage.

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