Rock My World 1

Jack Slade was the man all women wanted.

He was tall, lean, and muscular, with an ass that fit a pair of jeans in a way that made women wet for miles. As the lead singer of an up and coming rock band, Jack seduced his audience with a voice that could shift from high pitched and sweet, to low and seductive, to hard all in one breath. With longish black hair, ice blue eyes and pale skin, he looked like a cross between a medieval warrior and a fairy prince and was just as carelessly beautiful.

The band had just finished their first album with some big record label, and had just completed their first tour with a final gig in their hometown. He was seeing his name in lights all over North America. Things were going great, except that at the tender age of twenty-nine, the lead singer of the Razor Blades found himself in one of those deep, emotional dilemmas.

Though Jack had his pick of women, the truth was that deep down, he was lonely.

"That is such a load of

shit

, Jack!" his drummer said to him one night. "We've got the world at our fucking feet! Didn't you enjoy those blonde twins I sent to your dressing room the other night?"

"I did," he admitted. They'd been the model stereotype of hot blonde twins: bisexual, incestuous, and willing to fuck any musician they could get their hands on. He enjoyed them, just like he'd enjoyed every other gorgeous young groupie who'd knocked on his door, "but I'm getting bored with it."

Kenny stared at his friend with wide eyes.

"You are a fucking ingrate! Do you realize how much pussy you're going to get now that we've finally cut a record deal? It'll make those twins look like virgins! And you're telling me that screwing random, exotic women isn't doing it for you anymore! What the fuck is your problem?"

His problem was that he was pushing thirty, and getting sick of fucking random women. They weren't really interested in

him

; they were interested in the whole rock star image, as if giving the lead singer a blow job would allow them to feel the thrill of a crowd. His drummer, Kenny Wicks, was only twenty-three and still filled with dreams of being surrounded by exotic women. Jack was past all that. Women had been throwing themselves at his feet since their first gig eight years ago, and now, just as his career was really taking off, he wanted something more.

He wanted a woman,

one

woman, and not just any woman; someone he could talk to, who'd scream

his

name and no other when he fucked her. He wanted a woman who'd take him as he was; someone who'd see him as Jack and not just another rock star. There was no way to explain this to Kenny. His drummer would just berate him for being too old, so he shrugged and took a long pull on his beer.

"I guess you're right," he mumbled.

"You're fucking right I'm right! Now let's finish our beers, and I'll get you a stripper to tide you over until our gig tomorrow night. There will be so much ass at this thing they'll be tons for everybody!"

'Everybody' was the term Kenny used to describe their bassist and rhythm guitar, Ron and Dean. Ron, the bassist, was the rock music stereotype: long, curly hair, short mustache and beard, threadbare jeans, and a drug habit. Thankfully his addiction was to marijuana, a drug that made him pleasantly mellow and filled him with hundreds of interesting song ideas. Dean was a musical genius who flaunted his bisexuality by wearing lipstick and eye makeup on stage. Neither was with them that night; Ron was writing songs, and Dean had a date with the bouncer from the last club they'd played.

Jack promised Kenny's overprotective mother that he'd keep an eye on him, so he was stuck with the kid, at least for tonight. Tossing back his beer, he let his friend drag him to the titty bars while he moped in the face of the strippers. He brought Kenny home when his friend was too drunk, and dumped him on his couch. He left a couple of aspirin and some water on the coffee table and headed to his room.

Stripping down to his shorts, Jack fell into bed and slept.

***

Jack loved being on stage. He loved the feel of his voice pouring through him into the microphone, the guitar strings under his fingers, and the adrenaline rush of being surrounded by screaming fans. He'd fallen in love with the rock stage playing in a high school talent show. Jack knew he had a gift, and he intended to ride it all the way to the top.

The band was finishing their set and there were thousands of fans before him, but Jack's mind wasn't on them that night. A big fan of the Johnny Depp film

Cry-Baby

, he'd always believed that his dream girl would be right there in the audience. For some crazy reason, he was convinced that here, in a concert hall in his hometown, tonight was the night. As he led the Razor Blades into a slow ballad and watched cigarette lighters illuminate the audience, he scanned the crowd. Faces blurred into one another, and with a look of desperation he sighed and nearly lost his rhythm.

She wasn't here

Jack thought sadly, and with a shrug, he returned to the song, encouraging the crowd to sing with him. As people swayed to the seductive beat of Kenny's drums, one face emerged from the audience with shocking clarity.

Jack's fingers tightened on his guitar, for he knew in his heart that he'd found her.

She wasn't extraordinarily beautiful. Hair to her collarbone, cut to frame her face, dark almond eyes, full lips, and golden skin. Age-wise he placed her anywhere between seventeen and twenty-five.

Surrounded by gorgeous young girls, it wasn't the woman's appearance that drew him, it was her cool demeanor. Amidst hundreds of people seduced by his melodies, her expression remained unmoved. Though he'd wooed nearly everyone in that hall, she seemed completely immune.

From her place in the crowd, she stared him down with glittering dark eyes that said

you're not so hot; I've seen your routine before, and it bores me.

A challengeJack thought with a smile, feeling lighthearted for the first time in weeks. She was a challenge; he hadn't had a real one in ages.

With a winning smile he finished the song and bid the audience good night. As he swung his guitar strap over his shoulder he winked at her, and smiled wide when her lips twisted in a frown. As the stage went dark, he reached into his pocket and turned to a member of security.

"Make sure

that

woman doesn't leave," he said, pointing to her retreating back and slipping the man a fifty. He wanted to freshen up a bit before he met her, so he wiped the sweat from his brow with a towel; mouth washed and took a long swig of water. He threw his jacket on and he grabbed his keys.

"Jack, where's the fire?" Dean asked as he ran toward the exit.

"In my heart, baby," Jack replied on a laugh. He was in the parking lot when he met up with a dejected looking security guard.

"What happened? Where is she?" he demanded.

The guard gestured to the jeep pulling out of the parking lot and speeding out of sight. "I tried, man," the guard replied, making no move to return Jack's money. "I managed to keep her a few minutes but she said I had no right. She whipped out her cell phone and started calling her lawyer. Your manager told me to let her go."

Jack wasn't listening; he'd already jumped on his motorcycle.

By this point the concert traffic had dissipated and his dream girl was getting away. He couldn't let that happen. Popping his helmet on, he sped off in the direction of the retreating jeep, his leather jacket flapping in the early autumn wind.

He found the jeep parked in front of The Barn, one of the many bars offering live entertainment. Jack knew this place well enough; he'd played there many times as a struggling musician. He parked his bike on the street and was heading to the entrance when he caught sight of a figure leaning casually against the side of the building.

"A motorcycle riding rock star; how original," his dream girl said cynically. She was dressed in faded jeans, calf length boots and a skin tight black leather vest that enhanced the curve of her breasts. Her languid pose showed off her slender body, curves, and the long, lazy line of her legs. She was smoking; Jack caught the unmistakable scent of marijuana.

"You're a rock fan smoking pot, and you're accusing me of a lack of originality?" he asked.

A corner of her mouth lifted. "Touché," she said.

Jack was about to speak when a busboy poked his head out the door.

"Five minutes, Lady," he told her.

The woman nodded and took a final hit from her joint. Standing to her full five feet six inches, her eyes darkened and she glared at him.

"I don't take kindly to being followed, Mr. Slade, so the next time you're looking for a fuck, stick to your groupies!" she said, and with those words, she handed him the joint and stormed into the bar.

Jack stared at her retreating back and then at the joint in his hand. There was no point in letting it go to waste, so he indulged himself by taking a long drag before stuffing it in his pocket.

"She doesn't like you, Jack," said a booming voice. Jack turned around; it was Mike Murphy, bar owner and the man who had single handedly lured a record company rep into his establishment, eventually leading to the Razor Blades' big break. With a smile Jack hugged the older man and slapped him on the back.

"Enough of this mushy crap!" Mike barked with a grin. "Let's go inside. I haven't had a drink in over an hour!"

"Your beer still terrible?" Jack asked, following him inside. The bar was surprisingly crowded that night, but with a little pushing and shoving Mike managed to find him a stool.

"Everyone's a critic!" Mike muttered, slipping behind the bar. With expert hands, Mike built him a Guinness, and grabbing one for himself, he took a seat next to Jack.

"Tell me about that girl," Jack said. "Is she one of your bar tenders?"

Mike laughed, his gut shaking. "Good God no! She'd eat my customers alive!"

"Then who is she?"

Mike gestured toward the bar's tiny stage. The band was setting up, but the woman in question was no where to be found. Sound checks were made, and at a signal from the lead guitar, a Goth in his early twenties, the band began playing an eighties tune.

Jack recognized the song. It was Joan Jett's "I Hate Myself for Loving You."

As he began moving to the music, his dream girl emerged from the lady's room, microphone in hand. Jack's jaw dropped. Her timing was flawless, her moves, effortless, and her voice, dear lord! It was husky, sexy, and everyone in the bar could feel her anger, released in all its glory for the song.

The bar was enslaved by her . . . and she knew it.

You could see it in every move she made, shoving at the chests of awestruck college boys, patting the faces of tired baby boomers, and encouraging the women to sing with her as she shouted in the faces of their boyfriends.

As she moved seamlessly into her second song; an original tune about a beaten down school girl, Jack finally understood why he'd singled her out. She was a rocker, pure and simple, and like him, she belonged on the stage.

Her voice shifted as she moved into a slow sexy melody that showed off her impressive range, and this time, Jack couldn't help but think she was singing for him. She moved her hips now, grinding up against her guitarist, briefly sharing her mike with her bassist, a bald young black woman, and bending toward her drummer in a way that had Jack's eyes narrowing as the denim stretched across her backside. Then she turned and fixed those dark eyes on him, and Jack realized much to his embarrassment that he was hard; harder than he'd been in ages. The crowd was under her spell, and much to his chagrin he was as much a victim as the men around him.

"Incredible isn't she?" Mike said in his ear, shutting Jack's mouth with a not-so-gentle hand before resuming his place behind the bar.

"What's her name?"

"She won't give me one; insists I refer to her by her stage name."

"Which is . . .?"

"Lady Death; the band is called the Undertakers."

"And I thought my band name was cheesy."

"How did you get stuck with a name like that anyway?"

Jack smiled wryly.

"Kenny came up with it. Ron and Dean liked it so much I was overruled," he said.

The Undertakers were finishing their set, and 'Lady' was thanking the crowd and announcing they'd be there every Friday and Saturday night. Jack smiled eyeing the skin at the small of her back between her jeans and vest. He was going to be in town for the next few weeks working on songs for his second album.

That gave him plenty of time.

That was the extent of Jack's thoughts when, beautiful and sweaty, and smelling faintly of floral shampoo, Lady Death shoved a man off the stool next to his, whipped out a ten spot and demanded a Tsing Tao. Jack had never heard of it before, but in seconds Mike explained by bellowing:

"You're still drinking those sissy beers? Let me build you a proper drink, Lady. You'll never touch this Chinese crap again!"

"Are you going to give me my beer or do I have to jump the bar and kick your ass?" she demanded, putting her face directly in that of the old Irishman. The rest of the bar watched with bated breath, but Jack knew Mike and wasn't worried. He was more focused on the way her chest arched as she threw back her shoulders.

In that instant, the two of them bust out laughing, and with a howl, Lady Death planted a smacking kiss on Mike's cheek. Mike, in turn thumped a bottle of beer in front of her.

"Since when do you carry this foreign stuff?" Jack asked over the noise in the bar, as Lady Death took a long swig.

"Since she asked me to . . . I'm a sucker for a pretty face," he said, exaggerating his accent to Lady's obvious delight.

"You always were a charmer," she said with a smile.

"I dug your set," Jack said conversationally.

Lady Death's lips curved.

"I noticed," she said gesturing absentmindedly at his lap. She took a pull on her beer, and bottle in hand, she bent toward the bar with what looked like exhaustion.

Jack frowned, feeling his cheeks color as he leaned forward, subconsciously trying to hide the evidence. He wasn't sure he liked being put in his place. It was disconcerting, and arousing, making her more of a challenge than ever . . . and Jack had too much pride to back down.

"Tell me, are you really that good, or was it the grass talking?"

He expected, almost hoped she'd be insulted. Her spine stiffened as though she was, but she only laughed. She laughed with her whole body, tilting her head back.

"The highest of compliments, simply stated."

"It wasn't meant as a compliment," Jack insisted.

"All right, whatever you say, Jack. You've won. Your place or mine?"

That brought him up short.

"Excuse me?"

Lady frowned.

"You're not deaf, Jack. I asked you a simple question."

"I thought you said I should look elsewhere for a fuck?"

Lady shrugged. "You're not looking. I am. Your place or mine?"

Jack smiled. He was enjoying himself now.

"I don't think so," he said.

That caused her spine to stiffen even further and she glared at him with eyes so dark, he resisted the urge to lean away from her.

"Excuse me?" she asked. "You followed me here, and now you're turning me down?"

"Yep."

"I don't get you. I thought you wanted too . . . "

"I did. I changed my mind. You're too mouthy for me. I'm sorry I followed you," he said with more than a trace of condescension.

Lady's eyes narrowed even further and her jaw clenched. With alarming speed she slapped him smartly across the face.

The slap stung his cheek and snapped his head to one side. Her strength was surprising; her audacity, even more so, but he refused to lose his temper.

"I'm sorry, did I say mouthy? I meant temperamental. It's that time of the month isn't it?" he suggested with a grin. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had this much fun.

Lady raised her hand, her fist clenched this time, but her band was behind her and ready. The Goth, and the drummer, a tattooed Asian man with spiked hair, grabbed her by the arms, holding her firmly in place.

"It's not worth it!" the bassist was saying. Lady struggled for a second, and then she relaxed and smiled slowly, returning his grin.

"Hey everybody . . . look! It's the lead singer of the Razor Blades!" she shouted. Jack was surrounded instantly. He barely saw her salute before the crowd thickened even further, and he was lost in a sea of faces, pens, and demands for autographs.

"Don't break too many hearts Jack," Mike said from behind the bar.

He'd been watching them with more than a trace of mischief. These two were going to fight like cats in a bag, and then they'd roll around in the sheets for weeks. He'd seen it hundreds of times, but found it particularly endearing in his two surrogate children. Oh to be young again. With a nostalgic sigh, he poured a few brews.

***

Lola had just finished loading the van and bid Lucifer, Tommy, and Janie goodnight when she made it back to her jeep. Business was slowing down at the bar, so she wasn't the least bit surprised to see Jack Slade, in all his lean muscled glory, leaning against her car, glaring at her.

"You know that wasn't very nice," he said, his voice ripe with irony.

Lola sighed.

She really didn't have time for this. She told Mortimer she'd be working late and couldn't join him for dinner with his parents. Tired and wasted was no way to greet her prim and proper fiancé the next morning.

Why the hell had she propositioned him?

Then he smiled in that cocky, over confident way men did when they were in the middle of a game of cat and mouse, and she knew why. Before she succumbed to marital mediocrity, she wanted one last thrill.

The band was her dirty little secret. When she was on, she was filled with a sense of power and ecstasy she knew she couldn't get any other way . . . and then Jack Slade, lead singer of the up and coming Razor Blades, followed her to the Bar, and she wasn't so sure anymore. Not that it mattered; old blue eyes turned her down.

"Is that why you're still here? You want to reprimand me? I don't have time for this" she moved toward the door of her car, but Jack stepped in front of her. "Back off!"

"No," he said stubbornly.

"What the hell do you want from me?" she demanded, more than a little exasperated.

Jack arched a brow.

"A kiss," he said simply.

Their bodies were inches apart now; she was glaring at him, her muscles tensed with awareness. He smelled of sweat, and leather, with the barest hint of spicy musk.

"You're not getting one. Back off!" she insisted.

"Kiss me, and I'll back off,"

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I'm engaged," she said, whipping the ring from her pocket. There, she thought, that would shut him up, and we could both go our merry ways . . . but Jack didn't move.

"He's not for you," Jack said decidedly.

Lola's spine stiffened even further. "What the hell makes you think that?"

Jack shrugged; they were close enough that the move rubbed his chest against her breasts. Lola bit her lip as her nipples tightened.

"If he were, you'd be wearing that ring instead of carrying it around in your pocket AND he would have been here tonight. Where the hell is he anyway?"

"None of your business! Get out of my way!"

"Kiss me, and I'll step away from the door. I give you my word."

She couldn't decide if he was more pretty or handsome. The eyes were on the girly side, but that jaw of his, while narrow, was definitely male, and that smile playing over his perfect mouth was damn near irresistible.

Fine, she thought, frowning. He wanted a kiss? She'd give him one!

Her hand slid over his chest, loving the feel of muscle beneath his thin cotton T-shirt, over his collarbone and the cords of his neck. She slid her long fingers into his hair, and pulled his face down to hers.