The music thrummed in his ears. He tapped his foot to the rhythm and swayed against the microphone stand. His hand flew up to sweep a lock of brown hair out of his eyes as he set his gaze on the throng of bodies in front of him. They writhed and danced, pressing together, limbs mingling and sweat mixing, all in an effort to get closer to the stage and to the band.
His green eyes flashed from face to face as he started in on the chorus. The song was a bit slower than what they normally played, but it was definitely a panty dropper. He locked eyes with one particularly sweltering blonde, her deep v-neck shirt showing the skin glistening with sweat between two of the most perfect breasts he’d ever seen.
She smiled at him slightly, singing along with the words as her body moved to the rhythm. He couldn’t help but stare at her. She was perfect. Long wavy hair, tight body, and a great rack. What else could a lead singer ask for? Drummers, they always got the crazy girls, ready for anything and with more experience than he personally preferred. Guitarists, well, they seemed to draw the overly sympathetic girls, the ones that always thought they could fix the brooding musician. But lead singers, they could have whatever they wanted. Or at least, that had been his experience.
He continued to sing, leaning into the microphone, his lips caressing the metal casing as it amplified his voice. He looked back to the blonde, just in time to watch her hands as they roamed up and down her body to the music. He kept on staring until her index finger wound its way up to her lips, her tongue slipping out to suck it into her mouth. Shit. He had almost forgotten what words came next.
He glanced over to the bar, away from the girl trying to give him a rager. He glanced back over to her direction quickly though, a magnetic pull forcing his head back around.
Where’d she go?
He searched the tightly packed crowd in the dim night club. All he saw was a sea of faces, singing his own lyrics back to him. Yet none of them matched the beautiful face of his blonde siren. The song drew to an end, the heart breaking lullaby created by the lone guitar bouncing eerily around the quiet room. Oh yeah, definitely a panty dropper.
Just as suddenly the silence was broken by loud applause and shrill screams. The set was over, thankfully, and the lights came up. He blinked rapidly, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the brightness. Sighs and muffled groans could be heard all over the bar as the manager came up to announce last call over the speakers. Vaughn reached past him to grab his glass from the stool at his side. He took one last swig from it, the alcoholic mixture tingling his nose and warming his scratchy throat. He had almost given up hope of seeing Blondie again tonight, when miraculously she popped up in front of him at the edge of the stage, a drink in each hand. She held one up to him, making his eyebrow lift just slightly.
This is too easy, he though smugly.
He smiled back at her, taking the offered drink and, raising the glass to his lips, began to chug the burning liquid. He coughed, choking, as the fiery substance made its way down his throat. He jumped off the stage to stand beside her, and she reached up to hit his back a few times.
“What the hell was in that?” He voice cracked and he looked at her questioningly. He’d never had anything like it before.
“It’s a house whiskey. I get it all the time. Cheers, and you’re welcome,” she said, her hand moving gently up and down his back. She only stopped for a second to knock back her own shot. When he was finally able to stand up straight, he realized he had to look down to see her. He hadn’t realized up on stage just how small she actually was, but she couldn’t have stood more than 5’5”. He felt like a giant next to her at 6’3”.
“House whiskey, eh? What do they put in it, hot lava?” He joked smoothly, sidling up to her as people made their way past him towards the exit. He’d been so focused on her that he hadn’t noticed the bar closing and the band breaking down the stage.
“They call it Liquid Fire, and I guess for you the name fits. For those of us who know how to handle their liquor…” She let the sentence trail off teasingly. He towered over her now, so close he could smell her perfume. All he could do was smile at her stupidly. He felt like a love drunk puppy. His body tingled with electricity all the way down to his toes, and he swayed on his feet.
“Whoa, buddy, are you okay? You don’t look so good all of a sudden,” she drawled slightly, putting her hands to his hard chest to help steady him. Her accent was amazing, and for a moment he wondered what a sweet southern beauty was doing all the way up here in New York.
“Nothing wrong here.” The words came out funny, like his lips were moving in slow motion. The room was beginning to blur a little.
“Really, I think you need some air. Come on out back. We can sit and talk for a minute.” She led him, stumbling, around chairs and tables, all the way out to the alley behind the bar. The cool night’s air hit his face suddenly, but it did little to alleviate his sudden drunkenness.
“Here, come sit here.” She pulled him by the hand down to the back steps. He half sat, half fell onto the cold hard pavement, his hands grazing something wet there. Alleys in New York City; it could have been anything. Vaughn didn’t really care, though. He was alone with the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen, concealed by the darkness of the night. All he wanted to do was wrap his arms around her softness and pull her in tight and never let go.
“Hey, where are you going?” He called to her as she released her hold on his massive hands, leaving him on the ground by himself.
“Don’t worry, hun, I’ll be right back.” Her sweet, soft voice was strangely reassuring, and so he sat contentedly to await her return. His head swayed a little as he tried to fight the pull of the whiskey. It was strong and seductive, and slumber tugged at the corners of his eyes.
He felt her return before he heard her, her small delicate fingers finding his large calloused hands. A sharp pain lanced across his palm suddenly, though, and all thoughts of seduction were quickly erased.
“Ouch! What was that?” He bellowed like a wounded lion as she clenched his hand into a tight fist.
“You cut your hand on a piece of glass. Keep your palm closed to keep pressure on it. It will help stop the bleeding.”
As she spoke those words, he could feel blood trickling down his forearm, all the way down to his elbow and dripping not onto the pavement, but possibly into some sort of container from the faint plunking sounds he could hear.
“I don’t think it’s working,” he slurred. “And my hand is on fire.”
“Good,” she spat, her sweet southern accent suddenly spoiled with venom.
“Huh? Look, I don’t even know your name.” His confusion was growing by the second, and he wondered if his band mates knew where he was.
“My name?” She spat, coming to squat in front of him, her face mere inches from his. He could feel her breath on his skin, and for the first time in his life he was scared of a girl.
“My name is the same as every woman you’ve ever willed into your bed. My face is the same as every girl you’ve seduced. You feel empowered by your conquests over the weaker sex, and you draw them into your web like flies to a feast. You are a heathen, and you inflict pain upon every woman you scorn. My name, you ask, is Adorathe, and I am here to curse you!”