| |
“Fuck England!” came the traditional, closing, guttural cry from Nick Marlowe as he set another Union Jack on fire right in the middle of the stage, and the crowd went wild.
Jordan “my friends call me Spence” Spencer still couldn’t believe he was there, in the thick of it, pressed up against the railing so hard he was about to mate with it. It wasn’t his first time at a Boom Goes the Crown concert, not even the tenth time, yet somehow this one felt different. Perhaps because Nick Marlowe bent over the edge of the stage in the middle of the chorus of “The Queen Can Suck It,” his leather pants stretched so tightly over his shapely thighs that Spence could swear he saw the outline of his gigantic cock, and made eye contact with him.
The blazingly intense gaze of Nick's blue eyes didn't last longer than a second, but that second was enough to give Spence the biggest boner of his life.
“Jesus Christ, he looked at me. He looked right at me. Oh sweet Jesus, help me!” Spence’s mind threatened to go into a chaotic tailspin as he turned to his roommate, Hiro Karahashi, who had agreed to accompany him on this road trip; at least for the first week and a half of concerts. “Do you think he likes me? What if he likes me?”
“You’re insane!” Hiro yelled back over the din of the crowd, seemingly unimpressed. "And you need to get laid!"
As the Union Jack burned and the band exited the stage, Spence’s mind was resolved. Tonight was the night. Hiro was right. He was going to get backstage and he was going to... What? Well, at the very least trip and drool all over Nick Marlowe. Carpe noctum!
~~~
They had originally come to some prominence as VAINity, back in the days when Charles Vain was the lead singer. More growl than man, Charles Vain and his propensity to take off random articles of clothing on stage had drawn crowds. Rumor had it, it was all Lenore Mathews’ fault that he had left the band and gone solo, performing under the eponymous if somehow even more megalomaniacal name VAIN.
As far as Jake Verlaine was concerned, rumor it could stay. He wasn't about to comment on the numerous mornings he'd found Lenore and Vain bunked down naked in the tour bus, nor the more numerous mornings he'd found Vain with a hotel room full of fangirls - and fanboys. He'd had words with Vain about it exactly one time - that you could fuck your bandmates OR the groupies, but certainly not both - and been told to fuck right off.
And it wasn't like he didn't know how hard it was to make that choice, not with hundreds of adoring young boys and girls reaching for you night after night, getting your name jailhouse tattooed on their body. But Sloane was worth it, and Nyx was worth it, and that was all there was to it.
And Lenore was more than their bandmate; she was the damn band’s manager. That’s like sticking your cock into the food grinder. Serves him right if Lenore had kicked him out.
At least Charles'd had enough good form to leave behind his drummer; those were hard to find. Jake had always found Chad “Guns” Cobb proficient at his instrument and delightfully easy to convince in matters of band business; all in all, the ideal bandmate. Though to be fair, it was far more likely that he'd stayed because he had enough self-preservation instinct to choose Lenore over Charles, which did indicate more intelligence than Jake normally gave the man credit for.
He hadn't quite made up his mind about Vain's replacement, though. The so-called Nick Marlowe. Or for that matter, the band’s new name. What did they even mean by 'Boom Goes the Crown'? But Nick had suggested it, and Lenore and the rest had gobbled it up whole, muttering utter nonsense about how “punk” it was and how it added “much needed gravitas.”
“I don’t understand why I couldn’t have simply taken Charles’ position as the frontman,” Jake had grumbled.
“Nothing about you, cheri,” Nyx, their accordion player and Sloane's girlfriend (which made her Jake’s girlfriend-in-law or whatever) had tried to be conciliatory. “But you know, a frontman should have that je ne sais quoi that you simply do not have.”
“What tu ne sais quoi?” Jake had prodded, foolishly.
“Raw animal magnetism,” Sloane had supplied with a sneer.
Jake had resolved then to quietly resent the man, at least until his quiet resentment boiled over into simmering hatred. But he had to admit, Nick did look awfully good in his ridiculous leather pants and army coats with bloody epaulets on them. The wanker.
And of course the fucker had to be a dog owner. Dogs. On tour. Not even a respectable dog like a Great Dane or a German Shepherd or a Rottie. No, their fearless new leader owned poodles. Small, yappy, in the plural.
"They're hypoallergenic," Nick had sneered at him the first time Jake had seen them, at the start of the tour. As if that explained bloody everything.
"Because the last thing we'd want, as a respectable punk rock band, would be for our fans to break out in hives?"
But Nick was already down the road with three fluffy bundles of yip bounding after him, ready to pee on anything he commanded them to.
As Nick took them back into the bus, one of them neatly lifted its leg and let out a stream onto Verlaine's suede shoe.
"Fucking hell, Marlowe!"
"Porthos! In the bus!" Nick ruffled the dog's brown curls. "Good girl."
"Good? It pissed on my fucking shoe! They’re suede, Marlowe! Do you know how hard it is to clean these things?"
“That’s what you get for wearing suede in the first place,” Nick squinted and bared his teeth as if he was part dog himself.
“You should talk!” Jake couldn’t control himself. “I’ve seen that black velvet suit you’re bringing on tour! And what kind of name is ‘Porthos’ for a poodle?”
“It is an excellent name,” Nick sneered. “Porthos is a true and loyal companion. She never tries to hump anyone and she doesn’t shit on the furniture, like the other two.”
“Christ!” Jake exclaimed. “The other two hump and shit on furniture?”
“Athos and Aramis had had a very difficult childhood,” Nick shrugged, and that had, apparently, been the end of that discussion.
Jake had turned to Sloane for support, feeling caught somewhere in the middle of exploding in frustration and shooting himself in the fucking head. She shoved a bottle of whiskey into his hand. "Let's just get on the road. Maybe we can leave 'em behind in Boston while he's not looking."
But, overall, Jake realized he’d been lucky to even still have a job. Leading frontmen, especially for a band like Boom Goes the Crown - a bloody punk rock band - weren’t exactly lining the streets. And this one too was rumored to have classical violin training (what the actual fuck?)! And with Sloane playing lead guitar with Nyx on the accordion, Jake suspected that his own position - that of the bass guitarist - was a lot easier to replace. Rounding out the lineup was the aforementioned drummer, Guns, whom at least Jake always found to lend a reliable extra dosage of testosterone if only by straightening out to his full height.
He only hoped Guns wouldn’t suddenly turn out to be a dog person.
~~~
Jordan Spencer was not ashamed to admit that he'd lined up at the concert venue three hours in advance to get that spot at the railing, in the hope that Nick might accidentally sweat on him. He wasn’t always like this, he recalled. He used to have a modicum of pride and decorum. He was, after all, an educated man, an aspiring writer, the soul of a poet, etc. etc.; whatever title would get him faster into the pants of his next chosen conquest. He used to think, in fact, that he was a very charming guy. A difficult guy not to like, even.
But all that was until he laid his eyes on Nick Marlowe and began to question his entire existence. First of all, his obsession did not make any sense: Nick’s lyrics were terrible, and Spence was extremely judgemental about such things. Second, Nick wasn’t even a particularly good singer, even if you could call a bunch of grunting and a whole lot of shouting “singing.” Plus, Spence had his doubts about the full anarchy implications of the whole Boom Goes the Crown thing. They were probably just aiming to be as loudly irreverent as possible while making a whole lot of culturally eclectic noise. Overall, Spence would describe the band as a mixture between Gogol Bordello and the Beastie Boys, only somehow much more aggressively gay.
Because make no mistake: Nick Marlowe was extremely gay. There was no doubt that he really needed the world to know exactly how much he loved cock of all shapes and sizes. His lyrics oozed with explicit salaciousness that would’ve come off as crude and off-putting coming out of anyone else’s mouth but Nick’s. (The British accent probably helped.) But oh, that lush, beautiful mouth. It had taken over all of poor Spence’s waking dreams and many of his sleeping ones as well.
And where did he even get off being so attractive? The man was a god damn ginger, for fuck’s sakes! It was unprecedented!
Spence had no idea what had finally filled him with enough courage to act: the music, the emotional high from the audience, the bourbon in his hip flask, Hiro's throwaway remark or simply the one second it took for him to lock eyes with Nick Marlowe. Whatever it had been, it was propelling him straight towards the back door, with the other groupies, all hot and bothered for a glimpse or a feel of their favorite punk rockers.
It wasn’t going to be easy. He would have to face the Cerberus at the door, for one thing - the entirely unswayable Hoaka Kalani, the band’s head of security. Now, Kalani may not have been the fiercest of bouncers Spence had ever faced before, but, Spence had to admit, the all-seeing eye tattoo on the back of Kalani’s freshly shaven head did have the desired intimidating effect.
“Is Guns gonna come out to sign autographs?” A girl with heavy black eyeliner and impressively gravity-defying tits pushed her way to the front of the line.
“Go home, love,” Kalani replied, patiently. “No one is doing autographs tonight.”
Shit. Spence took a step back from the crowd as a rumble of complaint went up. Was that it? The night that he'd finally girded up his loins to come out here and not a chance of seeing Nick?
Then, through the chainlink security gate, he caught sight of a white cloud crouched underneath the tour bus.
Spence blinked and rubbed the bridge of his nose to clear his vision. Was that... a poodle?
Thinking quickly, Spence untied his jacket from his waist, pulling it on and twisting his hair back out of his face. The roadies had already started to bring stuff out, so he caught up the nearest black zippered bag and took a deep breath.
Walk with authority. Act like you belong.
"Pardon me, I'm late. Excuse me - thank you - could you get the gate?"
Kalani caught hold of him just as he'd managed to worm his way to the front of the crowd. "Hold it. What the hell are you doing?"
"My name is Jordan Spencer, I’m here from the groomers. Got caught in traffic. But if you'll excuse me I should be able to get done by the time you get on the road."
Kalani's bushy eyebrows lowered. "The groomer."
"Yes." Spence leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Poodle groomer."
"Oh for fuck’s...." Kalani grabbed the gate himself, shooing Spence in. "Go, go. For god’s sake, don't keep him waiting."
And just like that, he was inside.
Spence slipped around the tour bus and safely out of sight of Kalani, dropping the bag on a pile of equipment. Would Kalani follow up on his story? What if he actually had to try and groom a dog? Possibly he could muddle his way through it except for the fact that he didn't actually have any grooming tools. At least he was a dog person, or inasmuch as they seemed to enjoy slobbering on him and he didn't mind getting slobbered on.
The front doors to the tour bus were open, along with the luggage compartments, but for the moment there was no one in sight. No one, except the fluffy white poodle who'd given him his in. Bright black eyes in a mop of white curls turned to him, tufty ears perking. Spotting Spence, it bounded over, jumping up against his calf excitedly. "Well, I suppose this is better than standing around awkwardly," Spence said to the poodle, bending down to give the dog the attention it demanded. It was rather cute, he decided. And only a little slobbery. And... humping his leg.
"Hey, now! I promise you my leg cannot have puppies!" He tried to step back while keeping his hands on the wriggling, joyful animal. "Hold on, hold on. I'll pet you as much as you like, just please try to stop humping - "
"I don't suppose you'd like to tell me what you're doing with my dog?" said a voice, words curling around Spence like thick butterscotch.
Spence looked up, eyes moving past a very familiar crotch, up a black button down and into the slightly bemused face of his latest wet dream. For a moment all he could do was stare, mouth dry, words momentarily deserting him. Nick Marlowe's eyebrow rose higher, and in a sudden panic Spence realized he needed to say something.
He put on his best, most winning grin, stepping up to Nick boldly. "My name is Jordan Spencer, and I am going to suck your cock."
~~~