Bad Things(110)

I became almost clingy in my affections, which I’d never been before. I’d get upset about being clingy, and become withdrawn, which drove him insane. Clingy, he could deal with, withdrawn, not so much.

We kept the crazy club hours, and I became worse and worse at my day job, which I beat myself up about often. I loved the kids, loved Bev and Jerry. They’d done so much for me, and had helped me out a lot with school and just general employment, and I knew that I was becoming a bigger flake by the day. Still, I couldn’t seem to keep away from Tristan, not even for an evening, and the man couldn’t stay home for one damned night.

The band started playing every other weekend at Decadence, and that was both heaven and hell for me.

I loved to watch Tristan on stage, the way his presence seemed to suck the very breath right out of a crowd.

If the place was so packed that the room got warm, he’d whip off his shirt, tucking it into his belt, and boy did that get a reaction. I saw him naked all the time, spent hours staring at his beautiful body, but even I was blown away by the sight of him, tattooed and huge and toned within an inch of his life, the cut of his abs even more stark when he was belting out a song. That was the heaven. That and his voice washing over the throng in deep, intoxicating waves, making me warm all over.

Like me, Frankie never missed a show. We went together, always watching the performance from a few rows back. Tristan told me he preferred this, since I tended to distract him, if he could see me in the crowd. I was torn on this, liking the way I distracted him, but wanting so badly to be front and center.

Rosette, the pink haired slut from hell, never opened for them again, but Tristan’s female fans were nearly as bad. In just a few performances, I’d seen panties thrown on stage, a topless woman, and several with tops, try to grope Tristan, and heard things shouted at my boyfriend that no one should ever have to hear without a plate handy to throw. That was the hell.

I’d learned to focus on Jared when this happened. He was nearly as arresting as Tristan singing when he strummed on his guitar, a look of absolute bliss on his face. If the lead singer had been anyone but Tristan, I was convinced that Jared would have stolen the show. He was fond of taking off his shirt about halfway through the show, which the crowd always appreciated, showing that appreciation with screams and catcalls. How he was a relationship guy, and managed to stay single, I would never understand. Part of me wished I’d seen him first, like there was some chance that I may have been a different person before I set eyes on Tristan.

At the band’s third appearance at Decadence, I got to see firsthand why Tristan didn’t want me at the front of the stage, distracting him. In all fairness, though, there were extenuating circumstances…

Frankie had pulled me front and center between the opening act and the band coming out, spotting a friend of hers. It was a lovely Hispanic woman with an hourglass figure, and I saw right away that Frankie was interested in her. She’d told me many a time that this was her type.

We’d barely gotten introductions out before Tristan was filing on stage, the rest of the guys behind him. He’d spotted me before he even reached the mic. He sent me a slightly puzzled look, but that was all. He quickly looked away. He’d explained to me before that he needed to focus when he was up there, that no matter how many times he did it, it still gave him a strange bout of nerves, to the point where he couldn’t handle the level of distraction I caused him with my presence.

I was nearly close enough to touch him when he started singing, and I loved that. He’d never sing for me off stage, and I’d asked a lot. This was the next best thing, and I swayed to the beat, my eyes glued to the man I loved. The man I adored. The man I’d become completely obsessed with.

The downside to being that close to the stage was that it was also the most crowded part of the room, bodies that I didn’t know pressing up against me.

The band was on their second song when I felt big hands grip my hips, and a hot, hard body press against me from behind.

I stiffened. The bump and grind was a familiar element to the Vegas dance scene, but I usually managed to steer away from it, since I did actual dancing, and not the stand-up humping that some people called dancing.

The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds.

A greasy, unfamiliar voice whispered something suggestive in my ear, and I felt a strange erection poke into my behind. I didn’t even have time to react, or even consider how I wanted to react.

My eyes shot to the stage as the singing stopped, though the music kept going.