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
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
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
"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
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