Page 62 of Beneath the Burn

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 glimpsed The 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, she knew they 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.

“Good Evening, Los Angeles.”

A stunned hush fell over the arena. Jay’s greeting made Rio jerk, missing a drumbeat. Laz and Wil slowed their strumming and straightened their stances.

The quiet erupted into the ragged screams of thousands. From videos of the band’s live performances, she knew he sometimes addressed the crowd, but never from a visible position on stage. What in the world had gotten in to him? Devil-may-care, she surged with pride.

Watching her over his shoulder, Jay ambled further upstage, sucking on his fingers. “Nothing flavors rock-n-roll like the sweetly pleasing taste of pussy. Ain’t that right, Los Angeles?” He flicked those fingers in a peace sign and pivoted his body toward her.

The house went wild, as did her emotions. Who was this guy and what had he done with the man who loathed mobs and attention? She wasn’t offended by his declaration about pussy. In fact, she hungered for the confident musician strutting toward her, tapping the body of the guitar, even as something about his behavior slithered under her skin and raised the hairs on her nape.

A woman in the front row yelled, “Try my pussy, Jay.”

Holding Charlee’s gaze, he lurched back toward the crowd until his body was once again bathed in spotlights. “I found my huntress.” His eyes seared into hers. “My Charlee. Let me be very clear.”

For the first time since the show began, he looked away from her and toward the audience. “No one fucks with my girl.” He squinted into the lights, sweeping a pointed finger over the endless landscape of faces. “No one.”

Huntress . Charlee . The titles of their biggest hit songs. Before she could ponder what the crowd must be thinking, his eyes swung to hers and he belted the first verse of the first song she’d ever heard by them. “Huntress of the room in my head. Fearless and knowing.” The fluctuation of his beautiful voice was as haunting as the muddy notes humming from his amp.

The roadie pointed at an X taped on the stage in front of the drum kit. Jay walked past the designated spot, whipping the power cord so that it dragged behind him unhindered. He didn’t see the roadie stomp a foot and point at the X again.

She covered her mouth to muffle a laugh. Must have been a new guy. Surely the seasoned ones were used to Jay’s rebellion.

For the remainder of the set, Jay’s stage presence remained in the shadows. His charisma radiated an energy that rooted inside her, transforming her. He sang his heart out, hitting octaves that vibrated her bones.

She latched onto the passion behind his words, let it weave through her soul. The aroma of his musk-laced sweat rode on her inhales, fueling her body and rendering her paralyzed. She couldn’t avert her eyes from his smoldering ones as he performed song after song written for her.

On the fringe of her periphery, Laz and Wil jumped around center stage, their heads nodding to the beat of their instruments, in sync with the verve heaving from the crowd. The fog of pungent smoke—which could only be produced from the greenery passing through the crowd—was thick enough to drown out the perfume-weighted estrogen fuming behind her.

When the last note of the encore buzzed from Jay’s amp and drifted through the house, he yanked out the power jack. Holding the guitar out to the side, he didn’t look at the roadie who grabbed it. His eyes were on her, and they were hungry.

Applause thundered behind him as he inched closer. Arousal mounted on his face and pressed against his fly. Shit. Was he going to fuck her right there?

He reached for his belt buckle, released it. Unzipped his pants. The head of his erection pushed through the open flaps. He rolled back his shoulders.

Oh God. This was what he did after his shows. He didn’t have to leave the stage. His choice of lays would’ve been waiting in the wing. She squared her shoulders. He didn’t need them anymore.

But was that what she wanted? To go at it right there in view of the crew breaking down the equipment?

Her pussy throbbed. Exhibitionism defined the whole of her sexual history with Roy. Every interaction recorded and observed. It should’ve deterred her from wanting that with Jay, but like all her sexual desires, she craved it in spite of her initiation to it.

Nathan and Tony stood near the stage curtain. Charlee caught Nathan’s gaze, reached for the hem of her skirt, and sent him a silent plea to look the other way.

He tapered his eyes, clenched his jaw, and put his mouth at Tony’s ear. A few words passed between them, and he moved toward the wing, turning his back. Tony’s vigil returned to Charlee and Jay and everyone around them.

“Charlee.” Jay’s gaze made an explorative journey over her body, pooling heat everywhere it idled. He went back to her face, his tongue rolling over his bottom lip.

She gathered the skirt and bunched it up her hips until her thighs were bare. Biting down on a fingernail, she spread her legs.