Beneath the Burn by Pam Godwin
1
The aroma of rotting food crept in from a dumpster and clung to the humid air clogging the back of Jay Mayard’s van. The brunette writhing beneath him smelled worse. Stale smoke and hairspray infected her gaping pores.
Facedown and arms spread over a speaker box, she nudged him with her bony backside. “Come on, Jay. You’re so damn hot. I’m dying here.”
He ground his dick against her. He wasn’t hard, not even close. “I told you to shut up.”
“But I want you.” A husky, ashtray-laden whine.
He grabbed her neck, and she squeaked. Why was he even here? Maybe it was hope that sex would drown out the din in his head. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn’t. Dammit. His dick had been hard when they left the bar. Maybe he’d picked the wrong groupie.
He drove her face into the casing. “If you keep your fucking trap shut, I’ll give it to you.”
“Mmm.” She relaxed, waiting.
He could do this. He needed this, as long as she didn’t touch him. “Put your hands on the edge. Yeah, just like that. Now hold on and don’t let go.”
She panted and wiggled as he fished for the condom in his pocket and unzipped his leathers. Come on, fucker. Get hard.
The bastard lay limp against his thigh. He stroked it. Tried to drown out the body odor lingering in the band’s lived-in van. Tried to tune out the metal guitar chords vibrating from the back of the bar. Tried to attenuate his thoughts to the one thing that could give him five mindless minutes.
Willing, wet cunt.
His cock half-woke. He wrapped it, positioned it, and worked it into her.
Numb. The hole encasing his dick offered nothing but empty, dead space. He might as well have humped the air. He thrust harder, deeper and felt nothing.
“Ahh, yeah, rock star. Give it to me.” She pumped her hips and smacked her gum.
Could she not feel him shriveling? He fisted her ponytail. “Shut. Up.” He released her hair with a shove of her head.
The pace of their thrusting increased, out of sync, but the finish would come. It had to. He kept his eyes open, focused on the music equipment stacked around them, the bed rolls he and his bandmates slept on, anything but the self-destructive thoughts prowling the edges of his mind.
Something moved over his thigh, clenched on his ass. He froze mid-thrust. His skin recoiled from the sensation. Fingernails raked down his leg, searing a trail of heat. Hurt. Burning skin. Oh God, too much burning.
He stumbled backward and knocked over his guitar case. “Never fucking touch me.” His roar was harsh and clotted with spit.
Glittery black smudges caked her round eyes. She didn’t know what was going on inside him, and she wouldn’t be around long enough to find out.
The condom fell off in his hand. He flung it at her. “Get the hell out.” His fingers shook as he stuffed himself in his pants and zipped up.
The clueless twat tried to rise from her squat on wobbly heels without bothering to pull down the skirt bunched at her waist. “You are one messed up motherfucker. What the hell is wrong with you?”
His memories were tearing open, spewing flickers of the shed, the rumble of the oven, the stifling darkness, the trudging footsteps, and the creaking door. Oh God, he needed to get out of there before he gave her a sampling of his madness.
He shouldered out the passenger door and jogged down the alley beside the bar. Boosting his pace, he left his bandmates celebrating their successful show with booze and girls. His sprint, however, put an effective distance from the bitch screaming after him.
“You’re just a wannabe rock star. You and your limp dick.”
He rounded the bend and slowed to plod along the main drag. He didn’t want to be a rock star. He wanted to lose himself in his music, singing and playing guitar, town after town, night after night. Above all, he just wanted to forget.
Nightclub crawlers lingered in the south St. Louis streets, hanging on one another and howling with unrestrained laughter. He could be right there with them, immersed in all the trappings of a good time, if he figured out how to deaden his hang-ups.
He could go back to the van and write a song. He could find another groupie to screw. Or he could get high. Temporary distractions. He needed something permanent, something that would erase the hideous reminders that sucked sound judgment from his brain and his dick.
A tattoo could do that. A needle hammering ink into the second layer of skin was about as permanent as he could get. He’d wanted one for years, just couldn’t work up the courage to expose his skin.
Fuck it. He’d spotted a shop on his way to the show. If it was still open, it was meant to be.
Another turn. Another crosswalk. He veered around the milling bodies, the parked cars, the huddled groups of smokers.