Zayd’s emerald eyes stare down at me as he slides the mic back into its stand and steps back, turning around and heading for a piano at the end of the stage. He beckons me to sit beside him and puts his fingers on the keys.
“Ready?” he asks me, looking down from under those long lashes of his, his piercings gleaming in the late afternoon sun as it sinks behind the horizon in a molten orange ball. I nod and Zayd exhales, reaching up to turn on his mic. Tattooed fingers rest above the pearly white piano keys, and he starts off with a slow, easy melody that has the crowd swaying with lighters in their hands. His band backs him up with a rougher, more gritty sound that pairs beautifully with the lilting piano notes. “I’ll never be a nice guy, and I’ll never be a saint, but if you’re game to let me try, I’ll make a valiant change. If you could only love me for the asshole that I am, then I swear to God I’d be the man you want to claim.” Zayd pauses and lifts his hands off the keys, glancing back at his band. “Okay, guys, hit it.”
The other three boys hit their instruments hard, rocking the stage as Zayd stands up on the bench, taking his mic with him.
“I’m sorry, Marnye, but I do feel bad,” he croons, sitting down on the top of the piano, sweat dripping down the beautiful inked planes of his skin as he rakes his fingers through his hair and makes it stand up straight. “If there’s any chance of trust, can you give me another chance? There’s so much fear inside, no place to hide. But can you see the real me?”
I’m such a sucker for a good apology, I think as Zayd reaches out, takes my hand, and pulls me into his lap. He’s so freaking warm, and he’s shaking, too, fueled by the adrenaline of the crowd. I swear, it transfers into me as I sit there, listening to him sing a song he wrote, feeling the bass and the drums pummel through my body.
His cock is hard underneath me; I can feel it when I adjust myself, the tension between us stringing taut, an almost painful need overwhelming me as I touch my fingers to the sweaty curves of his biceps, basically feeling him up while he sings. I’m feeling bold, too, so I lean forward and lick the sweat from his throat, causing Zayd to stumble over the words he’s singing. Doesn’t matter though because I can tell he likes it, his body vibrating as he belts the song out and slides a hand up my back. His fingers sneak around and grab my breast, right in front of everyone.
My heart is pounding so hard, I can barely hear anything else. It’s like I’m cut off from the rest of the world, wrapped in a rock god’s aura. Zayd’s eyes close as he sings the ending of the song, “can you see the real me?” and then drops the mic and picks me up in his arms, hopping off the piano as the crowd screams and surges forward, pushing against the metal fence that blocks off the front of the stage.
“Let’s take a quick break, shall we?” he asks, and I nod.
Zayd and I barely make it backstage before we’re tearing at each other’s clothes, kissing violently, tongues tangling. His hands are sweaty as he yanks my tank dress over my head and tosses it aside, palming both my breasts in his colorful hands. I’m backed up to a speaker, so I scoot back until I’m sitting on it, my own hands fighting with Zayd’s tight jeans.
There’s nobody over here, behind the stage and around the corner of the faux wall erected between the row of portable toilets and one of the staff parking areas. That doesn’t mean there won’t be somebody here shortly.
We don’t exactly have a lot of time.
But that’s okay.
I’m not here for a long, drawn-out session of experimental hands and wandering mouths.
Zayd and I are finally going to let loose on this chemistry that’s been plaguing us since day one, when he walked into Ms. Felton’s homeroom and looked me over with a smirk. “I’d fuck you, if you were game.” One of the first things he ever said to me. Back then, I wanted to kill him.
Now … I’m game for sure.
Those pretty inked fingers of his slip into his pocket for a condom, and he’s got it on in half a heartbeat, yanking me close and looking me right in the face.
“Tell Zack and Creed I’m sorry,” he growls, his voice still stuck halfway between speech and song.
“For what?” I whisper, shaking all over, my hands curled in his sweaty tank.
“For putting them to shame. Let me show you how a rock star fucks.” Zayd pushes aside my panties, and I gasp. He cocks a sharp smirk on those perfect lips before he slides into me hard and fast. My head falls back, and I find that I can barely breathe. “Look at me, Marnye,” he purrs as one of the other bands fills the sudden gap onstage, and music surges through me like a storm.
My eyes feel impossible to keep open, but Zayd curls his fingers in my hair and pulls me close, kissing me and tasting like fresh sweat and the orange Powerade he was drinking onstage. His right hand slides up and grasps my breast through my bra, kneading the soft flesh as he fucks me against the speaker.
I’ve got so much adrenaline in me, I’m shaking all over. But holy crap, that feels good. Zayd licks up the side of my face and bites my earlobe, causing my back to arch and ripples of pleasure to arc through me. He’s moving so hard and fast, working his pelvis in just such a way that he stimulates every single part of me.
The sound of the crowd turns into a background noise to our fucking, this easy to ignore rumble that blends into this almost surreal sort of moment.
He’s big, too. I might be sore later, I think as I squeeze my legs tighter around him. That piercing I saw earlier, I can feel it, even through the condom. There’s a split-second there where I worry it might break, but surely Zayd Kaiser knows what he’s doing? God, it sure feels like he knows what he’s doing. The little metal piece stirs shivers of pleasure in me that are as foreign as they are welcome.
My arms go around Zayd’s neck, and I end up biting his shoulder—hard.
He groans as I finish, my body locking around him, drawing his own pleasure out in a guttural male sound that’s not quite as practiced and polished as the lyrics he sang for me onstage.
“Shit,” Zayd moans, breathing hard and gathering me up in his arms. “Fuck.”
“Hey.”
We both freeze as a voice draws us out of the moment, and I realize that I’m not wearing my dress anymore, and that Zayd is still very much buried inside of me.
It’s Tristan.
“You’ve got people looking for you,” he says, like he’s bored shitless. The way he looks at the two of us … I can’t tell if he’s furious … or like, if he doesn’t care. He’s completely shut down. “Hurry up.”
He turns and leaves as Zayd curses under his breath and slides out of me, taking off the condom and finding the nearest trash can while I scramble around for my dress. Just as I’m about to pull it over my head, he grabs the fabric around my wrists, effectively trapping me with the dress covering my eyes.
“You promised to help me fend off groupies tonight. Don’t forget.” I make a sound of acknowledgement, and Zayd cuts me off by kissing me with this hard, possessive edge to his lips. “You’re my only groupie now, Charity.” He releases me, and I yank the dress down as he takes off for the stage.
I follow behind, pausing next to Tristan near the steps and giving him a look.
“Are you—”
“I don’t care who you fuck, Marnye,” he says, and then he takes off and disappears for the rest of the night. If I hadn’t seen Lizzie dancing with a group of her old Coventry Prep friends, I’d worry they’d gone somewhere together.
As things stand, Zayd Kaiser does quite literally get swarmed with girls by the end of the set. His friends invite a good half of them into the party, and I end up plastered by his side through the sheer presence of the crowd. There’s hardly enough room to walk.
“Lucky bitch,” one of the girls murmurs, and Zayd gives her this dark look that proves to me he’s right: he’s just as much of an asshole now as he’s always been.
“Talk to her like that again, and I’ll show you the door myself, get it?” he snaps, and I raise my eyebrows as he looks down at me. “What? The only person that gets to bully you is me.”
“Aw, wow, such a romantic statement,” I say with a roll of my eyes, but I know it’s a joke, so I let it go.
Later that night, I end up in Zayd’s bed with Zayd and only Zayd, and he shows me he’s just as capable of going slow as he is fast.
The first thing I do when I get home from the concert is hit up Planned Parenthood with Miranda. She talks incessantly about how lucky she is that she doesn’t need birth control, but her constant chatter helps calm my nerves. And she’s got a point. Lucky bitch.
“You are so adulting right now,” she tells me when we walk out of there with birth control pills and climb into the Maserati.
“I am, huh?” I say, trying to find a place to put the giant box of condoms they shoved in my arms on the way out. I’m sure Charlie’s vaguely aware that I’m sexually active, but it’s not something he wants to see evidence of, I’m sure. “Should we go out to celebrate? A special birth control lunch?”
“Let’s wear our uniforms and go intimidate preppy, bourgeois brats in Grenadine Heights.”
“That doesn’t sound very adult to me,” I tell Miranda as I start the car, and she gives me a look, pulling down her shades to stare at me with ice-blue eyes.
“Just because we’re hitting eighteen doesn’t mean we have to give up on all the fun stuff. Come on, let’s go. Food’s on me.”
I grin, but I have to admit: that does sound like fun. Those all-black Burberry Prep uniforms have a way of drawing attention.
I slip my own shades on, and we head back to the house to grab our uniforms. Miranda’s spending the night again, so all her stuff’s piled on my bedroom floor. The Cabots have a huge beach house, but her parents have guests, so she’s made herself scarce. Creed, on the other hand, somehow got roped into an endless string of dinners and cocktail parties. I almost feel sorry for him.