Page 1 of Give Me What I Want

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Melolagnia – Sexual arousal caused by music.Could you imagine having thatandbeing the guitarist of a rock band? Yeah, me neither.

Could I imagine it as the singer of a rock band though? Abso-fucking-lutely.

Some days it was amazing, others it could drive me insane. Standing on a stage soaking my panties because of the music vibrating through my body, penetrating my fucking soul. Sometimes I could get so turned on it was actually embarrassing, but I wouldn’t want to change a thing. I wouldn’t switch careers over it, because up on that stage is the only time that I truly feel alive. Carefree.

Me.

Cole calls me a sound slut, I guess he’s right about that, although it’s not all sounds, just music. Not even all music really, but annoyingly,ourmusic really does it for me. Luckily, Cole is the only one of my bandmates who knows about my little turn-on. Although, I’m not always sure how lucky that truly is. Cole likes to tease me, always has done, ever since we first met in college, but over the years his teasing has gone from criticising my crushes to playing a rapid drumroll, or a thrashing strike of a cymbal just because he knows I’ll struggle to hide my reaction.Dick.

Every night when we come off stage, I sneak off to the tour bus, close the door to the back room that houses the bulk of our clothes and a double bed that I have claimed as my own, with its crossed-over lightsabers mounted above the headboard, and rummage around in my locked bedside drawer for the perfect toy. Ten minutes later—fifteen on a bad night—I’m stepping back off of the tour bus with flushed cheeks and a satisfied pussy, ready to go and hang out with my boys.

Each night on tour is always different from the last, sometimes it’ll be a chilled-out, quiet one, other times it’s a raging party that ends up with someone losing a whole lot more than just their dignity. On those nights, anything goes, but we have always had one consistent rule on tour; no hook-ups allowed on the bus.

That was something that had never been an issue for me. I was quite content to snuggle with whichever drunken member of my band climbed into my bed to make up for the lack of physical touch, but I’ve never craved or desired a wild night with a fan. Not like our resident playboy, Jordan, who soaked up the female attention, living his best stereotypical rockstar life.Sex, drugs, and rock and roll, baby.The number of times that I had walked out the back of a venue for some air and found him balls deep in a cute blonde—they were always blonde—was insane. I’ve seen more of him than any of my other bandmates, which is surprising since the five of us—Mav, Ro, Cole, Jordan, and me—have all lived together both on the road and in our house for the last four years.

Four years of mind-blowing success that had finally taken our band to the next level. We had worked fucking hard for years before that to get here, starting off playing open mic nights back in college, and now, for the first time since we had been signed by our label, we had sold out our European tour.

A tour that we kickstarted tonight with a hometown show in London. The atmosphere in the Brixton Academy, a venue where we had played as a support act once before, was incredible, and it made every little struggle that we had faced recently seem so much more worthwhile. Everything had gone to plan, we had the perfect opening act, Beauty Within, they were a new band who had studied under the same tutors who had taught the five of us back when we were in college. It already sounded like they had a bright future. I couldn’t wait to drag them along on the first half of our tour.

For the second half, we were going to be joined by Fall From Grace, so long as their frontman sorted his priorities out, which at present, didn’t seem likely, but we’d cross that bridge when we came to it. That was what our manager, Garth, had said.

Garth and I didn’t often see eye to eye, but he was reliable and good at his job. Things usually worked out in the end, and I had to remind myself that although the band meant everything to me, it was not my job to keep everything running smoothly. My job was to put on a show. Smile, and convince the fans that I wasn’t a pain-in-the-ass control freak with no reported sex life and a weird protectiveness over her bandmates.

Sabrina was hovering out the back of the venue, inhaling the last drag of her cigarette before she stamped it out with her black heel. Her face lit up through an exhale of smoke when I emerged from the alley that led to a quiet spot where the bus was safely parked.

“How was your post-show ritual?” she asked with a sultry grin.

Sab was the only female friend that I had—unless you counted my sister—and was one of the only two people who knew all about what I got up to on the bus after each show, and why.

Flicking my ink-and-ice hair over my shoulder I secretively grinned back at her, then pushed through the door, wincing as the thick, sweaty air inside hit me. I didn’t need to go into any kind of detail about the way I had just made myself come so hard that I had almost fallen off of the bed. Sab followed me in, and with a sway in her step, made a beeline for the guys while I yanked my hood up to cover my hair and snuck out to the main bar. I was desperate for a shot of tequila, and no matter how much I had begged, Garth wouldn’t allow me to have any backstage. But he couldn’t stop me from sneaking out if he wasn’t paying enough attention, and with the way that Sab had just thrown herself down onto his lap, tanned tits shoved up in his face, there was no chance that he'd have noticed me slinking off.

I kept my head low as I weaved through bodies to get to the bar. My hood was doing a great job of hiding my identity, but being just over five feet tall was an added bonus, I barely came up to most people’s chins since I had ditched my heels in favour of my battered old Vans back on the bus.

In the darkest corner of the bar the barman’s eyes lit up when I raised my chin high enough for light to shine off of my upper lip and septum piercings, and when I reached for the shot glass, distinctive tattooed fingers peeking from my sleeves, he started to vibrate with excitement.

“Dude,” I hissed, leaning over the bar. “Be cool, I don’t want to draw any attention.”

“But… You’reher. I wasn’t expecting to meet you, my boss wouldn’t let me work the back bar because, well, I’m a huge fan, and you’re…Fuck!” He was almost shouting; I could see why his boss had made that decision.

I groaned, rolling my eyes as I lifted my chin a little higher, grabbed his shirt and tugged, snapping him instantly out of his excited bubble.

“Get me a pen and a napkin, and keep quiet, dammit dude,” I whispered, glaring at him. The quicker I got back backstage the better. I wasn’t feeling up to getting mobbed tonight, and with the mood that Ronan had been in pre-show, I was sure I wouldn’t hear the end of it if I caused a riot by acting recklessly. But dammit, our manager should take my requests seriously, it wasn’t like I was a drunken liability like certain other rockstars. I just wanted to be able to enjoy my drink of choice instead of having to settle for beer and whisky.

Sometimes I wondered if Garth actually liked me, he always seemed to favour the guys, acting like their fairy godmother, all of their wishes his command.

I threw the shot down my throat, humming at the burn and grinning as I licked my lips. The barman came back with a red pen and a neatly folded napkin. Thank god it was fresh. The amount of times I had been handed crumpled used napkins or even the back of a shopping list to sign. But I’d take that over signing body parts, I hated signing bodies. He gave me his name, then when I held the napkin out for him to take back, he bit his lip, a question forming in his eyes that his mouth was refusing to voice.

I already knew what it was though. I got the same request almost every time, so I wet my lips, then pressed them just below my scribbled name, leaving a deep-red kiss in their wake, something that I would never do on a stranger’s skin.

“Happy now?” I asked, and he nodded his head like a madman while shoving the napkin into his pocket.

“Another?” he asked, holding up the bottle of tequila, and I instantly softened, pushing my glass his way.

“Sorry for being so short with you,” I apologised, and he overfilled my glass with shaky hands. “Thanks for being discreet. See ya dude.”

The second shot burned just as much as the first, and I felt a tingle in my chest as I slammed the glass down on the bar and turned to duck back through the crowd, only to slam straight into a solid, sweaty chest. A solid, sweaty chest that smelled strongly of peppermint.Fuck, dammit!

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