I'm With the Band Ch. 03

[Note for Literotica: heavy use of italics below]

Jess pulled her truck in to the parking lot of The Pentagruel, killed the engine, and unbuckled her seat belt. Unfortunately, she'd done what she always did when she was nervous about an upcoming event: showed up way too early for it. It was 6:14 PM. The sun had already set, with only a hint of purple visible over what little horizon Jess could see between the buildings. The street lights had started to come on, and it appeared that no line had formed yet outside the club. The building's lights flicked on and displayed the logo: five severed arms all grabbing each other in the shape of a pentacle. The blood from the severed ends of the arms dribbled down behind them. "Lovely," Jess flatly muttered.

She glanced over at the comically-huge water bottle with the large canvas strap sitting on the passenger side of the truck. It would have been fairer to call it a small water tank. Jess wondered if she should've buckled it in for the drive, for fear of it becoming a 10-pound missile if she had to make a sudden stop. The recently-purchased monstrosity was mostly empty now, though, so it was a moot point. She wanted to make sure she didn't pass out again, and had been pounding water throughout the week.

"God, I hope I don't have to pee mid-concert," she said aloud.

She looked out the driver's side window at the club again and saw a few people starting to form a line at the door. Jess gripped the steering wheel. The thought of having to work her way through the crowd just to get to the bathroom brought with it the panic. Her breathing became shallow and rapid. The sound of her keys dangling and swaying from the ignition helped her focus. She looked down at herself. Her outfit was somewhat similar to what she'd worn the previous Sunday. She'd found some pre-ripped blue jeans and a pair of black boots that actually had ankle support. The only thing she wore that was exactly the same was the red zip-up hoodie. She looked in the mirror, and made sure the two puffballs she'd tied her hair up in were relatively even. Her makeup was inoffensive, she supposed: a little bit of eyeshadow, a light application of eyeliner; it was more or less the amount she wore to work.

With her self-check completed, she found she had calmed down. "Fuck me, what am I doing here?" she asked herself -- again, aloud. She put her seatbelt back on and reached for the keys already in the ignition. She paused, then reached for her phone sitting in the tray under the stereo. She unlocked it and went to the photo gallery. Swiping through the photos, she found the selfie of her and Jordan. She looked back at the club, the line now reaching almost to the edge of her window. "Fuck it, let's go," she said to no one in particular. She put her phone in her sweater pocket, unbuckled her seatbelt, and grabbed her keys out of the ignition.

Jess got out of the truck and locked it. It was starting to get cold enough that she could see her breath with every exhalation. Hands firmly in her sweater pockets, gripping her phone tightly in her right hand, she walked briskly towards the line -- partly to keep warm, and partly to get farther away from the truck, and thus further away from backing out.

She made her way to the back of the line. At the very least it wasn't around the corner yet, but then again, Jess and the other people waiting were still pretty early. Cars were starting to fill up the lot where she'd parked; people were piling out of buses and taxis. The line quickly stretched out behind her and around the corner. The guy in front of her had a short green mohawk and a black leather jacket with a huge Misfits patch on the back. Thankfully she wasn't sharing a spot in line with a puddle of pee this time.

The Pentagruel shared a part of downtown with a few 4-star hotels, a couple bodegas, and several restaurants and cafes that made food from countries that Jess would never have the time or the money to visit. The club didn't really seem to belong in this place. Looking down at herself, then looking around at the people lining up, she couldn't help but laugh to herself at the thought.

Jess heard a door open. When she peeked around the side of the leather jacket in front of her, she could see the anticipation and excitement pass through the line like an electrical current. Once it got to her, she couldn't help but feel it too. "Here we go!" she heard someone shout behind her.

Up ahead, she saw a large man wearing a black t-shirt that was easily 3 sizes too small walking up the line from the entrance. It looked like he had one of those earpieces in, and he was wearing a lanyard around his neck. As he walked, he appeared to be scanning through everyone in line. Right around the midway point between Jess and the entrance, he turned his head up the line, and then started walking straight towards Jess.

As he got closer, Jess noticed he wasn't so much tall as he was wide -- still taller than Jess, but then, almost all men were. Between the IFB in his ear, the short crew cut hair, and the fact that he was five-and-a-half-feet squared, Jess was plenty intimidated by this cube of humanity making his way to her.

"You Jenn?" he asked her in a clear, baritone voice.

She tried to be as casual as possible. "Uh, Jess, actually. 'Sup?"

"Whatever. Band's askin' for you," he replied, and he pulled a second lanyard and badge out of his front pocket and held it out for her. She couldn't process it. She stared at the badge outstretched before her. This has to be some kind of joke. Or a scam. Somebody's fucking with me, right? Like, he couldn't have known I was coming.

Then she considered that maybe it wasn't Jordan; maybe one of the other guys had asked Jordan about her, gotten her name from him, then asked to bring her backstage. If so, she thought, then this is super sketch. But if not...

"You comin' or what?"

"Huh? Yeah, cool. Sure." She took the badge from him and looped it around her neck. She looked at the line of people as she passed, and saw some looks of wonder, some of jealousy, and some of spite; a couple younger girls in line wearing heavy makeup threw her the devil horns and cheered.

"So, do they always ask people to come backstage?" she asked.

He kept walking in front of her in silence.

"Do you know which one asked for me?"

Still no response.

"Don't I need to pay first?"

"Nope," he finally answered.

"Well, at least there's that."

Jess felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter. The living slab led her past the main entrance to a door several feet beyond it along the same wall. It had a white sign with 'STAFF ONLY' printed on it in red block lettering. The door had no handle on the exterior; only a keyhole. The guard -- Jess assumed at this point that he was a security guard -- unlocked the door and pulled it open with the key. He showed her in and led her to the backstage area.

"Here, this way," he said, turning right to another door. This one had a long vertical handle on it, and didn't appear to be locked. When he opened it, she saw a dim light coming from the left side of the room, but it was otherwise dark inside.

Jess gripped her phone tightly, her thumb on the unlock button just in case. "Okay, thanks." She exhaled slowly and walked through the doorway.

Jess found herself standing next to the stage. The band's gear had already been arranged. "You the one Jordan asked for?" she heard from her right. It was a woman wearing a lanyard and badge that said STAFF on it. Jess nodded. "Cool. Just stay here with me, we'll be starting in twenty. You want anything? Snacks? Drinks? We got beers, if you want."

"No. No, I'm good." I heard that right, right? Jordan asked for me. Holy fuck, he asked for me. So many thoughts started racing through her head. All the hopeful and positive ones she immediately tried to chase out like rats with a broom, but they kept finding new avenues back in. She kept trying to plug the holes, telling her brain to shut the fuck up, but the rodents of unusual optimism kept making new entrances and inroads.

The stage was nothing but a simple concrete slab that sat about three or four feet above the crowd. She leaned over and peeked out to the right, and could see people piled up just in front of the stage. She could see that some of them were wearing shirts bearing the band's crudely-written logo. It even looked like some of them were homemade. "Okay, cool," she whispered to herself.

The lights went out. She heard the stagehand to her right say a bunch of things she thought might have been words into a walkie-talkie, and then the blue spotlights came on from behind the stage. For a moment, Jess forgot why she was there in the first place, and started to focus on the behind-the-scenes part of putting on a show. Jess had never done any kind of performing on stage as a kid. The only theater experience she had was when she got dragged by her parents to an off-off-Broadway production of Cats once as a ten-year-old. She did not recall enjoying it. In fact, she remembered falling asleep midway through the song about teasing rumps or something. It hadn't helped that they'd been stuck in the second-to-last row of the balcony, and Jess's seat had been installed halfway behind a pillar. Her parents had not been known for high living -- and still weren't, actually.

The guitar intro brought her back to Earth. She'd spaced out for so long she hadn't even noticed the band walk onstage from the other side. Jordan started singing. It was the same intro they did at the last show. It was haunting. He was so much closer to her this time. She could see it on his face: he was feeling every word he sang. Even though the crowd likely couldn't see him in any detail, he still poured himself into the performance. She glanced over at the drummer and saw his head bowed low, slowly nodding in time with the guitar. It almost looked like he was paying reverence to the performance before him, waiting for his cue to unleash hell on the audience. The guitarist was carefully working through each note, accentuating certain parts in counterpoint to Jordan's singing. There was a give-and-take between the two of them.

Before she knew it, the band erupted, same as before. Seeing the intensity with which Jordan screamed into the mic, and the fury he unleashed upon his bass, Jess felt excitement and terror. Adrenaline started rushing through her. Her breathing quickened, and she found herself grinning -- out of joy or fear, she couldn't be sure.

Jordan's outfit was basically the same as last time. There was nothing gaudy or outrageous about it; he didn't wear any makeup, a vampire cape, or regalia of any kind. It made him almost scary in a way: he dressed like any regular guy walking down the street, but he had all of this lurking inside of him. He was unafraid to unload it on hundreds of people a night... and they loved him for it. There was power at work here. She reconsidered; and 'scary' wasn't the right word. It was thrilling.

Jess even found herself singing along with whatever parts of each song's chorus she could pick up. Every so often she would catch Jordan glancing at her. Each time it looked like there might be a hint of a smile on his face before he would snap back to the mic or his bass. Each time he did, her sweater felt slightly tighter, and a faint tingle wound its way up from her toes through her thighs, up and over her chest, and throughout her face and head; it was intoxicating.

Not yet, Jess thought. Not yet.

Eventually, the last chords were played; cymbals and bass drums crashed in a rolling cacophony to signal that the last song had come to an end. Jordan thanked the crowd, bid them good night, and handed his bass off to a stagehand. He walked offstage, and directly towards Jess.

"Hey, glad you made it!"

"Yeah, of co- I mean, sure." Jess held an arm out like she was going for a side-hug, but also held it back and tried to turn it into a wave that ended up looking awkward.

"Ah, hang on, I'm kinda gross right now." He was covered in sweat. She walked with him towards the backstage area. The crowd was chanting "Ku-ha-ni! Ku-ha-ni!" from behind them. He quietly said in the crowd's direction, knowing they wouldn't hear, "Ask for an encore all you want, but we literally played every song we have."

He pushed open the backstage door and led her down a flight stairs across the room. "Come on, green room's this way." He had already reached the bottom when she got midway down. She stopped and peeked through the railing: it was a large, open room, with mirrors and makeup tables on two of the walls. The other wall had pictures and graffiti spray-painted on it. In the middle were two couches and a coffee table. The table had a few plastic cups and water bottles on it, a mostly-full bottle of Irish whiskey, and an ashtray in the center containing a couple cigarette butts and a half-smoked joint.

Jordan made his way to the makeup table opposite the stairs and opened up a black duffel bag. He reached in and grabbed a towel. As he started wiping off his sweat, he turned to her, "I'm glad security was able to find you. I told 'em what you look like, gave 'em your name. Hell, I wasn't even sure you were gonna come!"

"Yeah. What name did you tell them?"

Without skipping a beat, he answered. "Jess. Why?"

"Oh. Thought maybe you forgot. They asked for Jenn."

He laughed a bit. "Right. Years of shows probably blew out their hearing. They probably just read my lips or somethin'."

Okay, he remembered your name; good sign so far, Jess thought.

"Didn't hurt that you're wearing the same thing as last time." He looked up. "Oh, you changed up your hair. Nice."

"Thank you." She smiled and put one hand on her hip and mimed pushing her hair up with her other hand.

"Yeah," he paused, sizing her up again. "Looks good on you." He stared at her for a moment before seemingly catching himself. "You, uh, want something to drink? We got water, beer, there's some whiskey over there, I think."

He saw her look over at the already-opened bottle. "Oh, it's not mine. I don't normally drink before shows. Or outside. I usually do my drinking at home." She stared at him. "N-not alone, I don't drink alone. I'm not an alcoholic, or anything! And it's not like I drink a lot, so when I do drink alone, it's fine, really!"

Oh my God, he's nervous. Jess thought it was actually really cute, and saw her chance. "It's fine, chill. So, uh, yeah. About my outfit."

"Mm-hmm." She had his complete and undivided attention now. The towel lay under his hand on the table. He was facing her while leaning against the table.

"It's not exactly the same as the last time." With that, she gently pinched the zipper of her hoodie between her thumb and forefinger. She grinned, way wider than she meant to.

"Oh no?" His cheeks started to flush; an eyebrow raised.

"Nope." Her grin morphed into a lip-bite as she fully unzipped the hoodie, revealing a black, loose-fitting tank-top that exposed her midriff. On it was a close approximation of the Kuhani logo from the flag they used on-stage. Underneath it was a screen-print of what looked to be an African priest in full robes and pontiff's hat nailed upside-down to a cross.

It clearly took Jordan a minute to process everything he was seeing. She couldn't tell with what gaze he was staring at her, but she was glad she'd bought a new bra that gave her some added lift.

"So, um, after the show I looked up the word kuhani. After scrolling past a few brand names, I eventually found it was a Swahili word for 'priest.' Took some time at my boring-ass job to draft up some ideas. Wanted to pick something that matched the tone of your music, and, well, this is what I came up with. Too much?"

He walked closer to her, still staring at her chest. "You did this yourself?"

"Well, I have some skill with Photoshop, yeah," she said with some pride, pulling the open flaps of sweater back before putting her hands on her hips. "But the actual printing was done by TT's International; it's a printing shop near my job."

"I'm not gonna lie, that's pretty fucking cool."

"Thanks! Yeah, I saw your logo, and thought it needed something extra, ya know?"

"For sure! But," he paused, tilting his head, never taking his eyes off her shirt. "in the context of the band name, it works; it works fucking great! But out of context..." he trailed off.

"How ya mean?"

"It's an image of a black priest being tortured and murdered."

"Ohhhh. Right," she said. She looked down at her work. "What if it were three different kinds of priests? Like, a white Catholic guy and a Mexican priest?"

"You mean a ''Rainbow Coalition' of papal executions?"

He finally looked up from her shirt and met her eyes. They both immediately started laughing, with Jess being the first to break.

"What a fucking ridiculous conversation!"

Jordan continued laughing. "Oh my God, I know!" The laughter eventually died down, and he continued. "But, we can keep workshopping this later, if you want."

"Later?"

"Yeah. I assumed you were here for more voice lessons, right?"

Wait, what? Did I misunderstand this whole thing? All this tension, the back-and-forth, the banter? Stupid fucking Jessica, there's a reason you don't let hope in! You got your hopes up, and now they come crashing down like a fucking flaming 747-

"Anyways, here's my number."

"Wait, what?" she now said aloud. "Oh! Yeah, shit, hang on." She fumbled for the sweater pocket that was now behind her back and nearly dropped her phone. She kept it in a white silicone case due to her propensity to sling expensive objects at hard surfaces. "Okay, go ahead." She put his number in her short contact list and sent him a text.

Jordan reached over and grabbed his phone out of his bag. It looked like he had the newest iPhone in a thin, sleek case. "Ah, got it. And now I'll put it in here as," he paused, and looked up at her. "Jenn, right? No, Jeff? Jan." She smirked at him, shaking her head. "Jess, I know. I wouldn't forget."

"What's that?"

"Nothing. So. Oh, hang on," he looked down at his shirt, still soaked with sweat. "Shit. I forgot a clean shirt. Do you mind?" he slightly lifted up his shirt, suggesting he was going to remove it.

"Uh, nope! You do you." Jess truly hoped that sounded as casual as she meant it to be.

"Okay, good. Because I," he lifted his tank-top up over his head, "probably smell like fried unholy Hell at the moment." He grabbed the towel again and started wiping himself off.

For Jess, those 15 seconds of shirt-removal and towel-wipe-down lasted approximately 45 minutes. When he raised and tilted his head to wipe off his neck, the tendons and veins bulged out. The towel slid down to his well-developed-but-not-overstated trapezius muscles, then down to the boulders that she supposed medical professionals would refer to as 'shoulders.' When he toweled down his arm, she leered at his chest and the way each pec pressed against the other, like two tectonic plates shifting, threatening an earthquake.

Where his arm crossed over his torso, his bicep and forearm obscured each of his nipples. But as he started to wipe down his left forearm, his right descended, revealing at last the complete, uncompressed form of his slightly-hairy chest. The process repeated for his other arm. When he lifted his arm straight up to-

"Alright, you ready?"

"Whazzat?" she asked. Jess came back to reality. "Uh, yeah. What're we doin'?"

"So, last time we got you to project your singing voice. Now we're gonna turn that into a scream." He then demonstrated, at first projecting a note in that clear, almost-operatic voice. He followed it with a guttural growl, but his expression hadn't changed from the previous note.