Running Game(138)

“Good evening, Alabama! We are The DeVitos! How are y’all doing tonight?”

The crowd surged with pleasure.

“Fan-fucking-tastic! The boys and I were thinking about maybe playing a few ditties for you now, is that alright?”

Cue the same reaction.

“Awesome! Jack, hit it!”

“ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR!”

Guitars began riffing rapidly, each one waiting a few bars to add upon the building melody, while the drums chaotically blasted in the back. The singer was already head banging and hopping around stage, finally jumping back to the mike and bellowing out indecipherable punk lyrics.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard music like this.

It sounded insane.

It sounded wild.

It sounded fucking amazing.

And it was all thanks to Trent.





11





Trent





I’d spent the entire afternoon resting my voice, occasionally poking my head out to watch the musicians before us play. We were usually too busy to enjoy the other performers, but since this was a repeat concert, I could spare some time for each set.

To my pleasure, Angel was standing over with the other backstage guests, higher up in the food chain than even the VIPs in the front.

She looked happy.

No, more than that.

She looked completely fucking thrilled.

I found myself wanting to walk over to her, to spend some time chatting with her. Maybe I could get her attention or send someone to pull her back here.

Maybe I could seduce her out of those pretty little clothes before the show even started. She sure looked pumped up.

I briefly imagined slamming her up against a wall in the bus, behind a locked door, and taking what was mine. Her nice, round lips would polish off my cock while she perched on her knees in front, worshipping me. At the moment of sweet release, I’d drain my heavy balls down the back of her throat.

Maybe instead, my fingers would clench into the sweet flesh of her ass-cheeks, slamming her down hard on my thick, steely erection. I’d make her yelp with pain but moan with satisfaction, craving every last inch of my rigid cock.

I shook my head.

Not yet.

I didn’t need the distraction.

Nor did I need the other fans swarming me.

I was supposed to be relaxing, chilling out with the band before our set while they idly strummed and drummed on their practice instruments, not stalking my own guest and undressing her with my eyes from over here.

But goddamn, did she look hot.

The clothes she picked were amusing punk threads – a tight band shirt, a ratty jumper over it, a miniskirt frayed along the edges, long striped socks, and a that pair of Converse again. It was an interesting ensemble – probably improvised at the last second – but it demonstrated that she cared enough to try and look the part.

The only way she could look any more punk to me was if she’d dyed her hair green and added a spiked choker.

But this?

I liked this.

I liked it a lot.

My twitching cock agreed.

Enough distractions, I thought to myself as I pulled my eyes away from her. Within the moment, I’d slipped back out of sight. Retreating towards the group, I walked in on Waylon and Terence, ribbing each other over their playing.

They loved taking the piss at each other.

Dylan, on the other hand, was practicing a few rolls and clashes against a drum kit. He ended each one with a symbol crash, quickly grabbing the edge to silence the ringing sound.

“Hey, how’s your little pet doin’?” Waylon sneered, a sly grin on his face. “She alright in the sidelines, yeah?”

“Told you to not call her that,” I retorted.

Waylon and Dylan shared a look.

Terence simply shrugged.

“Yeah, well, it’s not often that the big guy hands out a free pass to a nice piece of ass,” Waylon smiled, his eyes curious. “It’s just nice to see you with your head back in the game.”

“How do you figure?”

“Maaan, you have been moping hardcore these last few weeks. Turnin’ down ‘tang in a dozen cities. Good to have the fearless leader back is all I’m sayin’.”

I grunted, taking a step towards him. I wanted to smack that shit-eating grin straight off of his face…but I stopped myself.

Last thing I needed to do?

Smack around my guitarist before a show.

And I owed the fans, anyway. RipFest had been sold out for three months. Sure, the other bands were a major draw too, but I wasn’t about to cripple the end-game of the venue lineup because my asshole guitarist was talking shit about my girl.

My girl?

I stepped back outside to clear my head. Where the fuck did THAT come from? Because that wasn’t a possessive thought – it was a surprisingly tender one.

For a brief moment, I considered the idea of waking up beside her, reaching over and kissing her shoulder, and listening for her slight, sleepy murmurs. The picture was so vivid in my head that it made my chest slightly swell.