Not someone the likes of whom petite, boring Josie Arrington
could possibly compete with. Not that she would ever have to. That girl was
long gone and Bram didn’t sound too eager to get in touch.
Anyway, Josie was not planning on breaking his heart. If he’d
give it to her, that is. Surely tonight in so public a venue he would hardly
acknowledge her.
She checked the album credits. It had been recorded two
years earlier, very sparely, from the looks of it. Bram produced it himself, no
outside musicians, no orchestra or fancy effects were credited. Just the
studio.
Earwig Recording, New Orleans.
* * * * *
Emerging into the humid night felt like being slapped with a
wet towel. No sooner had Josie joined the band on the sidewalk, beckoned by the
sounds of laughter and music, than dampness crept between her breasts.
It wasn’t much of a dress but it would have to do. She’d
thrown the pale-gray sleeveless thing in her bag as an afterthought. It had a
short, swingy skirt and the fabric clung to her chest. Even the color was
flattering, bringing out her gray eyes, which needed all the help they could
get. She poked in her contacts and found an orange scarf forgotten in her sack.
It looked forlorn, crumpled amid an optimistic nest of condom packages, also
forgotten.
The trip to Santa Barbara with Melanie, she recalled. At
least Mel had gotten laid that time.
Kraxis eyed the street, licking his lips. “I’m not waiting
for Varian.”
“He had a phone call to make,” said Jet. “So Bourbon Street,
ho!” He wore skintight black jeans and a shimmery silver tank top.
“Aye, let’s find us a Bourbon Street ho,” Kraxis leered.
“Won’t you be recognized?” asked Josie.
Bram shook his head. “New Orleans isn’t much of a heavy
metal town. Why do you think we didn’t play here?”
“That sucks.” Josie was more determined than ever to make
the blog a success. Next year Domination would headline…whatever arena the city
had.
“I have been on the business end of, ‘Aren’t you somebody?’
Always flattering,” he said wryly.
“Your American accent sucks,” laughed Josie. “So you’ve
visited here before?”
“Yeah.” That was all he gave her. A tanned blonde in her
carefully preserved forties walked past him, spun for a second look and
sauntered on, hips swinging.
No wonder. He looked downright edible, thighs taut in his
trademark leather pants, shoulders rock solid in a black T-shirt. Other women
on the street seemed to think so as well, as did some men. He was the target of
lascivious once-overs, provocative lip-licking and wide-eyed whispering. More
than one set of sorority-age girls nudged each other, whispering, “Who is that
guy?” But apparently none could place him. Domination might not have been a big
deal in New Orleans but Bram Hunter’s magnetic presence was just as
electrifying without a mike in his hand.
For a city overrun by tourists, the streets smelled surprisingly
sweet, like fresh greenery and flowers.
She wouldn’t think about the Goddess of the Nightworld,
whoever she was. No way she was handing over this evening and all that power to
some mysterious bitch who didn’t know what she had when she had it.
Around every corner another flowering plant perfumed the
air—jasmine, sweet olive, rosemary wafting from a private courtyard. Josie
goggled at the architecture, the beautiful scrollwork on the iron balconies and
the tropical colors of the buildings.
But as they strolled up the most famous street of all, the
scent of flowers gave way to spilled beer, vomit and human sweat. The least
offensive smell came from the remains of mule pies, left in the middle of the
road by carriage drivers unwilling to clean up after their beasts.
Torn-down-looking women haunted the doorways of strip clubs, costumed
characters roamed, pushing fliers, performing for tips or carrying signs for “Huge-Ass
Beers”.
Kraxis was on board with the last one. For good measure he
also bought each
could possibly compete with. Not that she would ever have to. That girl was
long gone and Bram didn’t sound too eager to get in touch.
Anyway, Josie was not planning on breaking his heart. If he’d
give it to her, that is. Surely tonight in so public a venue he would hardly
acknowledge her.
She checked the album credits. It had been recorded two
years earlier, very sparely, from the looks of it. Bram produced it himself, no
outside musicians, no orchestra or fancy effects were credited. Just the
studio.
Earwig Recording, New Orleans.
* * * * *
Emerging into the humid night felt like being slapped with a
wet towel. No sooner had Josie joined the band on the sidewalk, beckoned by the
sounds of laughter and music, than dampness crept between her breasts.
It wasn’t much of a dress but it would have to do. She’d
thrown the pale-gray sleeveless thing in her bag as an afterthought. It had a
short, swingy skirt and the fabric clung to her chest. Even the color was
flattering, bringing out her gray eyes, which needed all the help they could
get. She poked in her contacts and found an orange scarf forgotten in her sack.
It looked forlorn, crumpled amid an optimistic nest of condom packages, also
forgotten.
The trip to Santa Barbara with Melanie, she recalled. At
least Mel had gotten laid that time.
Kraxis eyed the street, licking his lips. “I’m not waiting
for Varian.”
“He had a phone call to make,” said Jet. “So Bourbon Street,
ho!” He wore skintight black jeans and a shimmery silver tank top.
“Aye, let’s find us a Bourbon Street ho,” Kraxis leered.
“Won’t you be recognized?” asked Josie.
Bram shook his head. “New Orleans isn’t much of a heavy
metal town. Why do you think we didn’t play here?”
“That sucks.” Josie was more determined than ever to make
the blog a success. Next year Domination would headline…whatever arena the city
had.
“I have been on the business end of, ‘Aren’t you somebody?’
Always flattering,” he said wryly.
“Your American accent sucks,” laughed Josie. “So you’ve
visited here before?”
“Yeah.” That was all he gave her. A tanned blonde in her
carefully preserved forties walked past him, spun for a second look and
sauntered on, hips swinging.
No wonder. He looked downright edible, thighs taut in his
trademark leather pants, shoulders rock solid in a black T-shirt. Other women
on the street seemed to think so as well, as did some men. He was the target of
lascivious once-overs, provocative lip-licking and wide-eyed whispering. More
than one set of sorority-age girls nudged each other, whispering, “Who is that
guy?” But apparently none could place him. Domination might not have been a big
deal in New Orleans but Bram Hunter’s magnetic presence was just as
electrifying without a mike in his hand.
For a city overrun by tourists, the streets smelled surprisingly
sweet, like fresh greenery and flowers.
She wouldn’t think about the Goddess of the Nightworld,
whoever she was. No way she was handing over this evening and all that power to
some mysterious bitch who didn’t know what she had when she had it.
Around every corner another flowering plant perfumed the
air—jasmine, sweet olive, rosemary wafting from a private courtyard. Josie
goggled at the architecture, the beautiful scrollwork on the iron balconies and
the tropical colors of the buildings.
But as they strolled up the most famous street of all, the
scent of flowers gave way to spilled beer, vomit and human sweat. The least
offensive smell came from the remains of mule pies, left in the middle of the
road by carriage drivers unwilling to clean up after their beasts.
Torn-down-looking women haunted the doorways of strip clubs, costumed
characters roamed, pushing fliers, performing for tips or carrying signs for “Huge-Ass
Beers”.
Kraxis was on board with the last one. For good measure he
also bought each
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