EIGHTEEN

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The crowd faded back, the screams were insulated from her monitors, not that she saw the faces anyway. Steph's fingers gripped her sweat streaked hair as she prowled the stage.

I'm hooked on you

I need a fix

I can't take it

Just one more hit

I promise I can deal with it

I'll handle it, quit it

Just one more time

Then that's it

Just a little bit more to get me through this

Her voice exploded out of her chest. Pounding against her soaked shirt she opened up, sucking every ounce of the frenzied crowd into her. Bending back the words ripped out of her, resonating to the back rafters.

I'm hooked on you

I need a fix

I can't take it

Just one more hit

I promise I can deal with it

I'll handle it, quit it

Just one more time

Then that's it

Just a little bit more to get me through this

Finally, heaving in a breath, she curled forward, falling to her knees. The words were her right now. She'd become them, letting herself bleed on the stage. Frustration had followed her for so long, she felt like she was really bleeding some days.

It's like I can't think

Without you interrupting me

In my thoughts

In my dreams

You've taken over me

It's like I'm not me

It's like I'm not me

Screams and cheers pulsed past the monitors in her ears. The spotlight burned along the back of her neck, then the stage went blessedly black. Pressing a shaking hand to the floor, she nearly slipped. Slick with sweat and her heart racing she threw her head back. She knew she should get up, but her legs were jelly. The soft blue glow that signaled the last song of their set was the first thing to pierce the buzzing in her brain.

She raised her fist to signal to Jamie that she needed a longer intro. Dragging that same fist into her belly she pressed down as if she could hold in the adrenaline firing through her. A flash of silver to her left caught her attention. She knew that strap. She hoped Richie saw every bit of that last song. He'd been avoiding her for days now and it was eating her alive. She wished she could move on. If he made a convincing argument as to why he held back, she just might be able to, but not for his stupid reasons.

Anger burned and she hopped off her knees, racing back to the front to stage. The guitar heavy opener pushed her into a growly rendition of the single that was putting them on the map. She used every trick that she knew to yank every last person out of their chairs until the arena screamed every lyric with her. She threw her arm around Jamie's shoulder, she was just as slick and wrecked as she was. Holding the mic between them the chorus rocked and the end of the show was one of the best they'd ever had.

During the bows, she was already backstage in her head. Already bursting with purpose. She wasn't waiting anymore, dammit. She was going to show him just how much she was willing to do to get what she wanted.

Richie took a swig from Jon's bottle of JD. His frontman was sitting in the corner, blank and grouchy after the show. Jon had been off all damn night and now he was going to drown himself. He'd been watching for signals all night, and the minute they were out of synch he'd tried to correct, but the fuck-ups had turned into a clusterfuck by the end of the first hour. The crowd didn't notice the timing issues, but Jon did. And he sure as shit did. He'd even had to carry him on songs that Jon could normally sing with a high grade fever and congestion for Christ's sake. He handed Jon back the bottle, a grunt was his reward. Ahh well, at least he was a quiet drunk. Letting Jon brood through his mad was much better than ducking a flying fist.

He wandered into the mix of executives, VIPs, and groupies. Some of the execs probably hadn't seen a pair of tits so fine since their college days. The room reeked of too much perfume and cologne with the underlying sweetness of pot. And seriously, if he wasn't smokin' it, he didn't want the tease. The himidity held all the smells over the air like a fine mist. He shrugged off his heavy leather jacket, trading out the cool factor for comfort. Music cranked out of the getto blaster someone had jury-rigged to an amp.

He glad handed and signed authographs, chit chatted with fans and enjoyed a semi-coherent conversation about guitars with one of the RCA reps that had finagled his way backstage thanks to Rich and his ever present notebook of names. All the while there was this spot between his shoulder blades that burned. He turned around to see if someone was staring at him, but he couldn't catch anything but come-on grins from the skads of women prowling the room. Normally, he'd have scooped up one to get rid of some of the adrenaline that never quite left his veins after a show. Smoke up, get laid, and relax had been the tone of his touring life until Steph had arrived.

Looking over his shoulder again, he thought he caught the bright blue of her eyes, but it was just another random girl in the sea of faces. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and headed to the bar. Restless, he looked around for something to capture his interest he finally zeroed in on an endless line of smooth, tanned back. The dip that curved into spine looked soft as satin. Hair was piled up, tiny little curls dripped down tangling in skimpy little strings that tied at her neck. The back was so low that he was expecting to see a shadow of cheek. His mouth watered. Finally, something to concentrate on that wasn't Stephanie.

He moved through the crowd, his attention focused. Smiling, waving when he had to, he followed the woman as she weaved through the crush of people. Just as he was about to get to her she slipped away. "Dammit," he muttered when one of the women he brushed by, hooked him by the arm. He really tried to be nice, but he had to find her again. He bussed the woman on the cheek, but ignored whatever she was saying. 

Another flash of the jet black dress, just a little more this time. Well, if you could call it more. It clung to her exceptional ass, and left more toned and tanned flesh to entice. Just enough of a thigh to pool spit into his mouth. Boots with little chained crosses down the back started right above her knee.

He'd let her leave the boots on when he got inside her.

She moved again, this time into the pulsing jumble of bodies that made up a make-shift dance floor. Girls tried to pull him in, grinding against his hip, his thigh, fingers grasping but he he still moved forward. She kept slipping out of range and it pissed him off. He liked the chase, but this was getting ridiculous. And suddenly she stopped, the fine line of jaw finally visable around all that fistable hair. The curve of a smile left a throbbing behind his zipper. She knew he was chasing her.

The woman turned and he swore. The grin was mischievous and the look in her eyes told him he was in deep shit. Stephanie Loran, up and coming rock star, fantasy woman, and bane of his existance slowly walked toward him. Her body was even more enticing from the front. The dress was made of some material that left everything moving and touchable yet covered every inch of the front of her. Knowing that her entire back was on display ate at something deep inside of him, kicking possessive instincts to life.

Fuck.

She didn't speak, just put her hands on him, backing him into the center of the dance floor where the music drowned out talking. A soft, sexy guitar wailed and David Coverdale became Stephanie's soundtrack. Her fingers trailed over his shoulder and down his arm, until their fingers laced. Unable to deny the fact that he wanted her close, he held her tight against his chest and he heard himself groan when her breasts pressed into his chest. And that was a definite yes...No bra.

Fuck me.

She transfered his fingers to her back and her glossy lips parted as his fingers splayed nearly the entire length of her back. They swayed together to the song, his thigh between hers, the silk of her skin burned under his palm. They shouldn't have fit together. He was nearly a foot taller than her, but she did. Every inch of her fit him like she'd been made just for him.

Her nose brushed his neck, the flick of her tongue at his Adam's apple was so soft and fleeting, he wasn't sure she'd even done it until he felt another at his collarbone. Her breath, hot and a little unsteady puffed against his chest. Her fingers slid down his chest, and down to the shirt tails that protected him from making a complete ass of himself. Her knuckle drew down the bulge there, and then back up and suddenly she was gone. Her touch trailed over his thigh and around the back of him as she slowly walked in a circle. Always touching, her heat there again and again, neverending. And when her palm cupped his ass he jumped.

Her low laugh purred in his ear as she came back around the front of him. This time, she'd slowly drew her fingertips up each knuckle, tracing over his palm, her nails biting lightly over his wrist and up his forearm until she reached his elbow. She scraped lightly then went feather soft at his bicep until she was back at his shoulder, and into his hair. Their eyes locked as they swayed to the sad wail of the guitar solo.

Wanting her was just something he dealt with, he'd been dealing with it since he'd been eighteen. The dancing, he couldn't deal with. The dancing was where the deepest and darkest fantasies were buried. Feeling her move under him, watching how her hips fit his was like walking sex. He traced his own fingers down the dip of her spine, over the curve of her ass and down to the satin flesh of her thigh. He wanted to be just as easy with her, just as fluid and open, but she made him feel stupid and clumsy.

He wasn't clumsy, not with this, dammit. He knew how to move, how to make a woman wild. His fingers dug into her thigh as she bumped against his cock one more time. Her breath thick on his neck, her arms loosely clasped around his neck. This was supposed to be easy. He bent slightly, his nose in her hair, her light scent curling around him like rain and sunshine. Nothing like the thick cloying room, everything that he wanted.

And the song ended, instead of holding onto him, she slipped away. She turned and walked away without a word or a backward glance. She grabbed beer from their tour manager with a sweet smile. As if she hadn't just blown him away with her body, with a dance, with her scent.

She laughed.

She danced.

She didn't act like the last five minutes had happened. And he stood there like an asshole. Hell with that. He stalked into the back, splashing a heavy handed cup full of vodka and ice--hold the soda. Screw it, he took the bottle.

Just shit.

He sat next to Jon. Downing the cup, he clinked his bottle with Jon's and refilled. They could both be fucking miserable.