There Was Music...

 

Jon’s fingers tightened on the sweating bottle of beer.  Thankfully Rich was distracted by half a dozen women in the crowd—and if he didn’t miss his guess, a certain lead singer pretty much had him by the balls. 

He’d looked everywhere but the damn stage for as long as possible.  Lighting, soundboard…hell, even the goddamn rafters. Anything not to look Richie’s fucking sister.  But there she was, smooth, tight and tanned dripping with sex appeal with every thread of her shredded jeans to the bits of lace patches sewn into the gaping holes that hid nothing. All it did was showcase her endless length of leg. 

He hadn’t been lying when he said he wasn’t a boob guy.  He wasn’t.  He was all about the legs.  He was all about James’ legs.  She stood back to back with Devotion’s bassist, Ronnie.  Each pulse of the beat destroyed him. James was one with her guitar and as her head fell back and the bliss hacked at any resistance he normally had. He bit back a moan as her jacket slid open and off one shoulder.  More smooth skin.  More tanned flesh to torment him with.

Red lace cupped small, firm breasts—just a mouthful of perfection—leaving a silver cross nestled just between them. 

A strip of leather clung tight to her neck in unrelieved black.  As if he needed a place to focus just above the little notch of her clavicle.  And there, another tiny cross dangled.  He could feel the heat of the metal on his tongue, the salt from her skin, and the passion that leaked out of her pores.

Determined not to show how she affected him, he dragged his eyes off the stage.  Every long line of her was memorized anyway. With a mom like Richie’s, you were expected to show up for TLC during the downtimes of touring.  Richie’s mother loved him.  And hell if he didn’t love Mrs. S right back.  Lusting after their daughter and Richie’s sister—well, fuck.  He was just asking to be buried out in the back with Champ—Richie and Jamie’s childhood dog.

He yanked his scarf lower on one side to cover the bulge under his damn zipper.  James was so off limits it was worth a lightning strike from God.  Then again, he always wanted the unattainable—like she should be any fucking different.  And as the girls screamed through the end of Psycho Bitch, he tried to distance himself from the blood boiling lust and focused on the band as a whole. 

They truly loved to play.  Stephanie’s purple scarf dripped all over smooth skin as she jumped with James.  Nothing but God’s gift to man bounced as they stomped and ground their way through the end of the na-na’s.   Then Steph’s teasing voice went low and he felt, rather than heard, Richie’s low growl.

Nothing about having Devotion on tour with them was a good idea.  Hell yeah, they were good.  There was no question the Sambora genes perpetuated talent.  Stephanie was aware of her power as lead and saw fit to destroy everyone in the crowd.  Ashley’s exuberance was second to her talent, and Ronnie kept them solid with her bass lines. Talent wasn’t the issue.

What they were was trouble.  Stephanie would mess Richie up until he got her skirt up around her neck and James would drive him slowly mad.  Period.

The house lights went low, leaving only a purple tinge to the room.  Screams from the crowd heaved through the dark, growing in intensity with the heartbeat throb of Ashley’s kick drum. 

She drew his gaze—as if he had a choice in the matter.  James dropped her jacket, leaving a coil of leather and silver bracelets tracking up her arm.  She slowly walked to the center mic, the guitar slung at her side.  Her toned belly shuddered a little, denim frayed where the button of her jeans should be. 

Just the tiniest jerk of his fingers and he could get into those jeans.  He could peel them down and taste the hot, wet---

Turn it off. 

Turn it off. 

He closed his eyes and forced his aching cock to ease. 

When he opened them again, a white light slowly glowed hot around James, leaving her face in shadow.  Thick, dark red strips bled through the inky color of her hair, feathering around her face and flowing back over her shoulder.  He could see the ends haloing around her elbows, arrowing down to that superb ass.  She’d swapped out her Fender for a slick black Gibson, and that was the last time he noticed her guitar.

Her lips crowded the mic, her voice smoky sex. 

 

Livin’ with my eyes closed, goin’ day to day…

He put his beer down, jamming his hands into his pockets—anything to ease the clawing hard-on he had.  She tipped her head back and screamed through the chorus.  All that tanned flesh, golden brown but the little scrap of red. 

Push it away.  Listen to the sound, find the faults. 

But there wasn’t any.  Devotion was tight and well versed in what they did.  He didn’t know she sang. It was Steph who was the voice.  Steph was supposed to be the lead.  Instead, James wrapped her long fingers around the mic, her voice rough and imperfect where Steph was smooth and true, or hot and sinful—but nearly always perfect. 

Now I believe there comes a time

When everything just falls in line

We live and learn from our mistakes

The deepest cuts are healed by faith

Now I believe

The song  suited the rough edges that defined James.  The passion and the in your face sound echoed the woman and made the song even more effective.  And if that wasn’t bad enough, she fell into an equally gritty guitar solo that ended the song.  Turning toward Steph they both smiled and hooked arms around each other.

Light to the dark.  Steph’s sunny blonde and brown mass of curls to the crimson and midnight of Jamison. But there they were, forehead to forehead grinning like fools as they opened their arms to Ronnie and Ashley to take their bows. 

Steph leaned into the mic.  “Stay where you are guys! You up for becoming immortal?”

The crowd roared. 

James took over.  “We’re making the Since You Been Gone video for a new video release, along with this live show.  So don’t go anywhere.”

He turned away, signaling for a shot of Jack.  He was going to need it to get through the rest of this quick trip into hell.

“Holy shit!  She was amazing!” Richie jammed in him the shoulder, pushing him a full step to the side.  “Did you see Jamie?”

Slamming it back, the burn scored down his throat letting him think again. He pushed at his overgrown hair.  Shit, yes he’d seen.  Every part of that would follow him for days.  Forcing a grin on his face, he looked up at Richie.  “The girls will do just fine as an opening act.”

“Fuck yeah, they will!”  Richie signaled for a shot of his own.  “Cheers!”

Jon tossed another back and snapped it on the bar, turning back to the crowd.  A slim brunette smiled at him, recognition sly and intent in her eyes.  Her eyes were a dull brown under too much make-up, not the golden, whisky color like James’—but they’d do.  And when he let her blow him—he’d just pretend it was James’ full mouth wrapped around his cock.

He smirked and nodded at her to come forward. 

In the Beginning...

Spring 1987

The hum of laughter, a gut vibrating bass line, and a whooping catcall greeted Richie Sambora as he stepped over the threshold of C.C. Rider’s.  But it was the twisting coil of smoke that drifted up to the rafters with the leading scent of pot that made that him grin.  Even at a showcase, they managed to sneak the good stuff in. 

Stage lights blared yellow then blue, and finally, an eerie grey, telling him it was probably red.  The club was full of people, a rainbow of colors and sizes—maybe seventy-thirty on the female to male ratio.  He stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd, so he had a clear view to the stage.

A well-worn boot propped on a speaker led to a coltish length of leg wrapped in ripped-to-shit denim. A glossy black and white Fender, rode across the woman’s thigh as she leaned into the solo.  Long fingers blazed across the fret, and a shredded lace glove hung onto her knuckles by a prayer. 

Jamison Sambora still played her guitar like the very notes were torn from her soul. He’d gone out and gotten her a proper Fender on the day she’d dotted the I’s and crossed the T’s to Devotion’s contract. His schedule had prevented him from actually seeing her use it on the stage. Pride, followed directly by a raised eyebrow—he’d have to ask his baby sister about that little technique—swelled inside him.

The pumping fists and singing crowd split his grin wide.  “Looks like Jamie’s doing all right for herself, huh?”

Jon’s cool gaze surveyed the room, his non-committal half smile said little. As usual, Jon was looking for the flaws and the strengths in the room.  Did he even soak in the excitement of the stage anymore?  Did he see the huge smile on Ashley’s face as she climbed on the drum set to get the crowd to sing along?  Sure the ceilings were too low, and Jamie could probably touch the rafters with the tips of her fingers, but who the hell cared when the music was this true?  Who the fuck cared that the room was far too small for the amount of people crammed in there?

The kids on the top level sure the fuck didn’t care.  The floor level bounced with the beat and screamed for more sure as fuck didn’t care.  Clubs were where the pure music lived if you let it.  Jon used to remember that, once upon a time.  He still remembered that sometimes, but the business of music was starting to take over and that scared the hell out of him.

Instead of dwelling on Mr. Cranky, he smiled at the long, cool blonde who flashed a wicked grin his way.  Her lips were slick with gloss that made a guy think with his dick.  Unfortunately tonight was not a night for him and his cock to have a discussion about the virtues of a good blow job. 

He was there with a purpose. Their buddies, Cinderella, wouldn’t be able to tour with them for the foreseeable future thanks to Tom’s busted vocal cord.  Of all the people he’d known, Tom Keifer had been one of the most underrated voices in the industry.  Not to mention a solid Vodka man, like himself. 

They’d wanted to give their band a chance to break out.  Strong songs and a hot look already guaranteed them stage time.  All they needed was a few months as an opening act to get them off the ground.  It sucked ass that Tom had gotten such a shit break.

But instead of allowing Bon Jovi to shop around for another band, Mercury dropped the hammer.  Hot new girl band and oh…lookie, lookie—Sambo’s little sister?  Gee isn’t she in a band on our label?  Perfect opening act.

In theory.

Fuck, man.  Jamie was going to have his head on a pike.  Prideful little shit that she was, she hated to use his name to even get a table—let alone be an opening act for Bon Jovi. 

The fact that they were on the same label was bad enough.  She was convinced he had something to do with her damn contract. That he’d been in Japan, touring at the time, and hadn’t a clue she was even thinking about recording a damn record was inconsequential.  That was Jamison, always worried about being in his shadow.

As if a shadow had a chance in hell around her.  She was an individual to be sure.  Where he was laid back, Jamie was intense.  He was self-taught, she’d sucked down every lesson available from New York to New Jersey.  She was a force of nature in all ways from personality to talent.  The day he paved the way for her was the day he flamed his way into the grave.

Anyone else would use their older brother to name drop and grease some wheels.  Jamie would rather cut off her damn arm—she’d find a way to play one handed.  She’d even contemplated dropping her last name just so people wouldn’t associate her with him.  Thank God she’d had the good grace to drop that idea…it would’ve killed their Pops.

It was her own style and her own talent that got her up on that stage.  His molars crunched together as she leaned forward for her solo. Devotion blasted through their hit single and there was his baby sister with just a damn bra under her leather jacket.

Son of a bitch.  The brat that had followed him around in diapers was not allowed to be a sexual creature in any way.  Man, it was just wrong. Dragging his eyes away from the stage before he did damage to all the fuckwads staring at her tits, he followed Jon to the back of the club.

They cut through the crowd until they found the bar.  Richie held up two fingers and mouthed Michelob.  If the bartender recognized him, there wasn’t a flicker of it showing in his eyes.  He caught them as they slid down the bar, handed one to Jon and leaned back for his first swallow and choked. 

Déjà vu hit hard as Stephanie Loren came to the forefront of the stage and one black lycra clad leg wrapped around her mic stand.  She held it tight to her body, rolling it across a wide black and silver belt that clung low on her hips.  A purple scarf hung from her mic and slithered across her exposed belly before she snapped it back into its stand.  Long fingernails, in the same purple shade, trailed down her neck, between breasts that could make a man beg, and scraped along her belly where the scarf had just been.

Just like that, he was stone hard. 

The mic stand tapped against the floor as the bass and drums ticked out the end of the song.  She stared into the crowd, chest heaving through the last strains of the song.  She dragged out, ‘Since You Been Gone,’ until he was fairly sure every male in the room was ready to show her just how fast they could help her get over the bum she sang about. 

Before he could find a shred of sanity, guitars ripped through the low ceilinged room and Steph’s voice went from sultry to husky.  Again, she wrapped her leg around the chrome of her mic stand.  This time, she shoved it between her legs and leaned into the crowd. 

Once upon a time there’d been a pole and a chair that she’d manipulated just as effectively.  It was years ago, but the image in his mind was no less potent.  She was lean and tight—except for the sway of her tits under a scrap of black she called a shirt.  A matching buckle cinched under her breasts, parting them until all he could think about was putting his face right there in their warmth, and dying a happy man. 

A blue light flared hard on her until silver sparkles tracked every line of her elegant neck and perfect curve of her chest.  She stared at the ceiling, stomping one heel into the hardwood stage, then faced the crowd and their eyes met.

Was it a memory or reality shuddering through his brain right at that second?  It had been gold dust that had nearly killed him on that long ago night.   He’d tried to put that night in New York City out of his mind, but here and now, the memory was so clear.

Stephanie became Rosie for one moment in time.

Until the words to the song poured out of her, deep and gritty as Jamie’s guitars, the only thing left was Stephanie.  Older, and if at all possible, even more beautiful.  The sultry curve of her mouth, the insolent cocked hip and a room of people at her mercy showcased her as part goddess and all woman. 

Jamie’s heavy guitar suited the song, but the way Stephanie moved and interacted with the crowd was pure, mesmerizing talent.  And in that moment, he knew they’d blow the arena’s away with their style.

“You all right?”

Richie nodded, deflected his reaction by pointing to a pair of big tits in the crowd. “I didn’t think they made fake ones that big.”

Jon stared at him for a long moment, then shrugged.  “You know I’m not a boob man.”

“Everyone’s a boob man,” Richie muttered and slipped on his sunglasses.  Jon saw too much.  He didn’t want to have to explain a slack jawed bought of lust.

That’s all it was.

He ruthlessly squashed the little voice that screamed, riiiiiiight. 

Lust he could handle.