Gus, Page 3

  After a few minutes of kissing, I’m so fucking horny I can’t see straight. My entire body is humming. I grasp the hem of her tank in my hand and tug, asking between feverish kisses, “Off?”

  She answers breathlessly, “Yes.”

  With the tank top history, all I want is to feel her skin against mine. Rolling over, I pull her on top and she drops all of her weight on me, one knee on either side of my hips. And if it’s possible, I’m even more turned on with her in the dominant position. Her nipples rub against my chest, the telltale reminder of her arousal dragging deliciously across my skin, heightening every nerve in my body. They’re screaming out in raging pleasure. Pulling her back in for a kiss, I slam her mouth to mine. The kiss is deep and demanding. She wants this, too. Her body is rocking against me. Reaching down between us I pull the waistband of my boxer briefs down so my shaft is exposed. It’s one more barrier down and it feels so good. Then I move my hand to her back and run my fingers up and down trying to mentally ease up and put myself back in the game. I’ve been out of my mind for the past few minutes and I want to make this last and remember every single second. Every single detail. I only get one shot at this. I know that. I want it to be perfect for her. She’s trailing kisses down my neck to my chest now, alternating between gentle, adoring pressure from her lips; to stinging, playful nips from her teeth; to sexy, tortuous teasing from her tongue. Reveling in the euphoria she’s creating with her mouth, I run my hand down her back, over her panties, and nudge the thin fabric aside between her legs. When I start stroking her with my middle finger, I can’t take it anymore. I need these damn things off. I reach for the waistband with both hands at the same time she reaches for the waistband of mine. Apparently great minds think alike. Without pause, she stands up to take off her panties, and I fully intend to rid myself of mine at the same time—that is until I watch her thumbs disappear inside at her hips and shimmy them down her legs. Now I’m completely transfixed on the naked woman standing over me.

  As she steps out of them, I say, “Don’t move.”

  “What?” she asks softly.

  “I just want to look at you for a minute.”

  I’m staring at her. And she’s staring at me. My underwear aren’t off, but I’m on full display.

  I scan her body one last time and when I meet her eyes there’s a need in them that I can feel. I shed my underwear and she drops down to her hands and knees over me and when she kisses me I know we’re both way beyond ready.

  “I need to grab a condom if we’re gonna do this, Bright Side.” She wants to. I can see it all over her face, but I still feel like I need to give her an out.

  She takes me in her hand. It’s the first time she’s touched me there.

  “Ah shit, Bright Side. Don’t ever stop what you’re doing.”

  “Ever?” she asks devilishly.

  “Never, ever,” I answer.

  “I can’t get pregnant, Gus. No plumbing, remember?”

  “But—” Goddamn, if she’s suggesting what I think she’s suggesting …

  She interrupts, “Have you ever been with anyone without a condom?”

  That’s exactly what she’s suggesting. I shake my head. “No. Never.”

  “Neither have I. If you want to use one ... ” Her voice trails off and she just stares at me for a few seconds before she continues. “But if you don’t ... ”

  I finish her thought, “I don’t.” I fucking don’t.

  She’s looking at me for the go-ahead.

  I nod, begging her with my eyes.

  I’m still in her hand when she guides me to her wetness and lowers herself down around me.

  And I lose my fucking mind when I glide inside. She’s tight around me. I’ve never felt anything like it. No barrier, just skin on warm, wet skin. This is intimacy. I get it now.

  I take her hips in my hands and help guide her up and down, back and forth. We move together and I can’t take my eyes off her body sitting up on top of mine. Riding me. She’s sexy as hell.

  Holding her close, I roll us over. When I’m settled between her legs, I touch the tip of my tongue between her breasts and slowly run it up, sucking gently at the base of her throat as my hips begin to move. She pulls back when I do and meets every thrust with one of her own. I knew Bright Side was graceful. I’ve watched her surf. I’ve watched her dance. I’ve watched her play her violin. But none of that compares to what I’m watching her doing beneath me right now. What she’s doing to me? It’s mesmerizing; I can’t take my eyes off her.

  And then I decide I need more of her. I take her knee in my hand and push it back toward her so I can go deeper. She gasps when I do.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she sighs contentedly in her lust-filled voice.

  Fuck. I pick up the pace because it’s building. I feel it in both of us. She’s moaning now, tightening around me. Wringing every last wish, and every last craving, and every last ounce of passion out of me; I willingly and hungrily give it all to her.

  My lips find hers one more time and she responds like the world’s about to end. This kiss is the precursor to a euphoric detonation.

  And then she completely shatters underneath me and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my life. I explode along with her. “I love you,” I gasp.

  She’s panting beneath me and smiling, but suddenly she looks bashful as she bites her bottom lip. And she looks tired.

  I kiss the tip of her nose and pull out of her. And then we just stare at each other for a long time. And even when the shyness fades, we don’t say anything. I think we’re both trying to process what just happened. And me? I’m trying to commit every second of it to memory because I know in my heart this will never happen again. I was just given a gift. And I will treasure it for the rest of my life.

  My eyes flash open when I hear Franco cough in the bunk beneath me. It brings me back to the shitty present. I hate the shitty present. I want to rewind time. I want to go back. That’s why I don’t think about that night. It amplifies the fucking disaster that is my current life.

  Sunday, February 5

  (Gus)

  Last night it seems I was impaired two or three lagers beyond the ability to function. I honestly don’t remember any of it. I guess they cancelled the show due to my sudden “illness.” It will be rescheduled and tacked onto the end of our tour. Everyone’s pissed at me and I know I should care, but I don’t. How fucking sad is that? Robbie yelled at me last night. He told me to, “Pull my selfish, fucking head out of my ass.” In the five years I’ve known Robbie, I’ve never heard him yell. It should’ve had more of an impact on me, but it didn’t.

  The logical part of me knows I’m letting them all down.

  Every other part of me doesn’t care.

  Tuesday, February 7

  (Gus)

  It’s afternoon, and I’ve been sleeping off another long night. I wake up to the sound of Franco’s voice coming from the front of the bus—and he’s talking with a woman. This intrigues me because the bus is moving, which means we haven’t reached our destination yet, which means there shouldn’t be any females on this bus. The longer I listen, I learn that Hitler is gone due to a personal matter back home. Which sucks for him, but is fantastic for me because his constant fucking condescension was getting on my last frayed nerve. He’s left us with a stand-in, a new tour manager. I can hear her listing off her credentials to Franco. Based on what I can make out, she’s fairly new to the game, but she sounds legit. Like she knows her shit, or at the very least is a great bullshit artist. Either one works for me. And she sounds ambitious, saying something about how she's “committed to helping us succeed” and “keeping this crazy train on the tracks.” I almost laugh to myself—good luck with that.

  I roll out of my bunk and stagger toward the sound of their voices. The stand-in is sitting at the table behind the driver. Her skirt is so short it’s almost non-existent. Thin, mile-long legs are crossed at the knee and presented like an
exhibition out in the aisle. They’re the first thing I see. The second thing I notice is her blouse. It’s strategically unbuttoned to frame her impressive cleavage. The third thing I notice is … nothing, because I’m still fixated on her legs and breasts. It’s February and we’re in Sweden (I think) and it’s snowy and cold as hell outside—she’s definitely not dressed for the weather.

  Sex. I’m not gonna lie, it’s all I’m thinking about at the moment. Sex with that body. Somewhere in the back of my mind I feel like an asshole for immediately going there.

  Sex, for me, used to be about exploration of a woman’s body, an appreciation of the act itself, a mastery of my craft, and, well, intimacy. Watching a woman come unhinged with pleasure and passion as a direct result of my touch, my body, is fascinating and hot as hell. I’ve never been in a relationship, but I’ve been with plenty of women. I lost my virginity when I was fourteen—to a seventeen-year-old, no less—and the train’s been in motion since. I wouldn’t say I’m good-looking, but I’m decent in the looks department and the ladies seem to like my body. I’m six-foot three, and I used to surf a lot, which kept me in good shape. I’m a big guy. Muscular. Chicks dig big guys.

  But everything I knew about sex changed when it happened with someone I loved. Last August—Bright Side. We’d known each other our entire lives. She was my next-door neighbor—my best friend. I was so in love with her, but she never knew it. She was funny, smart, talented, and fucking gorgeous. The most perfect creature God ever created. And that one night was all about exploration, appreciation, and intimacy. She's the most responsive lover I’ve ever had, but it was so much more. It was emotional; the best fucking night of my life. Period.

  How do you follow that up? The answer is: you don’t. At least not with any kind of honest effort. Every woman I’ve been with since is just a fuck. Plain and simple fucking. I’m in it to get off and that’s it—quick and dirty. Selfish? Absolutely. Does it make me feel like a dirtbag? Absolutely. For all that, it’s still astonishing how many willing participants I get. It’s sad how anxious and indiscreet they are—no shame … no pride. But you know what? It’s not my job to parent a twenty-five-year-old woman just because someone else has clearly failed in that department. So, yeah, I let them accommodate me. I turn my attention back to the stand-in, and let my eyes drift up to her face. It’s commercially pretty: big, dark eyes; high, prominent cheekbones; and full lips—all aided by a heavy coat of makeup. I’m a fan of natural beauty myself, but these days I can overlook that kind of thing. She’s probably in her mid-thirties given the smile lines that frame her mouth. She’s staring at me with her heavily lined eyes. She's stopped talking to Franco now that I'm here, and her expression is like an open book—easy to read.

  She excuses herself from the conversation and stands to meet me in the aisle, extending a hand. “You must be Gustov.” She’s talking to my bare chest.

  I shake her hand. “I must be,” I say, not embarrassed in the least by the fact that I’m standing here in my underwear on the verge of an erection.

  From my peripheral, I catch Franco out of the corner of my eye behind her. He’s shaking his head slowly and he’s wearing his serious face. He rarely brings out his serious face. It all adds up to say, Don’t do it. He’s been my wingman for years and he has an uncanny gift for spotting batshit crazy a mile away.

  She’s still holding my hand and her eyes have dropped to my midsection.

  I follow suit and let my eyes drop to her chest. I don’t want to look at her face. This isn’t going to be personal. Eye contact makes everything more personal.

  Now she’s urging me backward. I oblige and when we reach the bathroom door I open it. It’s an invitation that she accepts without hesitation when she follows me in.

  I’m unbuttoning the rest of her blouse before the door shuts behind her. And by the time she manages the lock on the cramped quarters her shoulders are bared and her bra straps are pulled down to her elbows freeing her huge, obviously silicone tits. Again, I prefer natural, but once they’re in my hands, my mouth, I’m not complaining. She’s theatrically moaning. I tune it out.

  When she starts wiggling out of her micro-skirt and panties I stop her, “Save it. I don’t have a condom in here.”

  She whispers in my ear, “It’s okay, I’m on the pill.” Her voice is husky. It’s not sexy. It’s needy. I hate needy.

  Now she’s trying to kiss me.

  That’s not gonna happen either. It’s too intimate. I haven’t kissed anyone since Bright Side. I turn my head. “Not okay. The way I see it we have one option here—”

  I don’t even have to finish my ultimatum before she’s dropped to her knees and my underwear have been tugged down.

  When she takes me with her mouth I can’t hold back, “Ah shit, that feels good.”

  She’s aggressive. It’s obvious this isn’t her first rodeo. There’s no fooling around with just the tip, she’s taking me all in. And I’m a big guy; this is full-fledged, deep throat, porn material.

  She’s got my ass in her hands and is holding me tightly against her. I’m worried I’m hurting her so I pull out. She literally begs me to continue. Well shit, you don’t have to ask me twice. It’s not long before her hair is knotted in my hands and I’m full-on thrusting.

  Release isn’t what it once was. It’s momentary blinding satisfaction, followed up too quickly by reemergence into bleak reality.

  I reach down and pull up my underwear as she’s standing, wiping her lips and chin with the back of her hand. Her eyes are dilated and tell me that though I’m finished … she isn’t. “I’m Clare, by the way.”

  I nod absently. “You have quite a way with introductions.”

  She runs her finger down my chest. “So do you. I look forward to working with you.” The look in her eyes tells me “working with” in that sentence is interchangeable with “fucking.”

  I release the lock on the door behind her, “See ya around,” and leave her alone in the john to her own devices.

  When I emerge from the bathroom, Jamie is sitting with Franco at the table playing poker. Jamie raises his chin in greeting. We aren’t talking much lately. Franco shakes his head. I know he’s disappointed in me. He tried to warn me. It’s strange, because I used to be the one that looked out for the band. I used to be our leader. Now it’s Franco. Maybe it makes sense; he’s the oldest at twenty-five. Or maybe it’s just inevitable given that I’m failing miserably at life.

  Thursday, February 9

  (Gus)

  Our producer, MFDM, called me today. He said he’s been talking to our record label and the label wants to re-release our album in a few weeks and include a bonus track. The bonus track is a song called “Finish Me” that Rook recorded last December with Bright Side. I wrote the song in the days following the bombshell—the bombshell being the discovery of Bright Side’s terminal cancer diagnosis. The band flew to Minneapolis and recorded it in a studio there about a month before she died. Bright Side wrote and played the violin arrangement and sang with me. The song is our best to date, but it’s also personal. Too personal. There’s no way I’d be able to perform it live, which is what would be expected after an album release. Hell, we only started playing “Missing You” live again this week, and that was only after I wrote a new guitar arrangement for it and we picked up the tempo. It’s morphed from a sad ballad to a hard-driving angry screamer. Because I’m outstanding at angry these days.

  I know the label will get their way. It’s about time to release a new single. What a coincidence.

  Saturday, February 11

  (Gus)

  Clare has turned into a welcome distraction. In between phone meetings, assisting us with interviews, interacting with venue staff, smoothing over the day-to-day fuck-ups I create, and whatever else she does, frequent doses of sex—whenever and wherever—have become routine. I may have to start buying condoms in bulk. She seems happy to do her part in our one-sided exchanges. I know, I’m a huge asshole, getting bigger by
the day, but no one’s twisting her arm. Aside from taking smoke breaks together we don’t spend any significant amount of time in each other’s company, which is ideal. When we talk it’s strictly business, and that’s kept to a minimum since Franco’s handling most of that these days anyway.

  Sunday, February 12

  (Gus)

  “Gus, can I be straight?” Franco gives me a hard look, and I know I’m in trouble. I used to hate being in trouble with Franco. Still do a little bit I guess, but not enough to change my ways.

  “Of course.” I don’t really want to hear it.

  “Dude, we’ve been on the road for two weeks now. Though I love the man bun and hobo beard—” I try not to laugh, but it sort of comes out like a snort. “Seriously, you’re rockin’ the hipster, mountain man, homeless look like a champ,” Franco continues. “But you need to shower. Like, every day. This bus is small, man. Hygiene is priority one. You smell like road kill.”

  I nod. “Point taken, dude.”

  Nothing is a priority.

  Saturday, February 18

  (Gus)

  Tonight we play our biggest show yet. It’s in London at an arena called O2. Twenty thousand people. Twenty fucking thousand. That’s a far cry from playing Joe’s Bar in San Diego in front of two hundred just two years ago.

  Sometimes I wish we were still playing Joe’s.

  I’m nervous. I never get nervous, but my hands were shaking all through soundcheck. Maybe I need a drink. What am I thinking? I definitely need a drink. I haven’t had one since last night. There wasn’t any beer on the bus. I suspect Franco has begun his attempt at a passive intervention.