Smoke from a Burning Building

Thankfully, her face had held on to some of its' tell-tale roundness. She had wide cheeks, which almost resembled those of a chipmunk; and a habit of blowing them out when she became angry. When she wasn't, they accentuated a loose, sensuous mouth and a pair of almond-shaped eyes. There was a small dark line around the border of each; almost as if she were wearing eyeliners, but she wasn't. Her nose was rounded, and dimpled ever so slightly at the tip. A soft brown birthmark, little larger than the head of a sewing pin, stood out on the left side of her chin. Despite having grown up near Wilmington, her face still faintly carried the after-affect of her mother's Egyptian heritage. Her skin was pale, but darkened in the sun without burning--usually.

She was dressed up today, knowing that she'd be seen by everyone; at least, dressed up in the way of a concert-goer. Her outfit was all black. Her shirt was little more than a lacy covering; hinting without being actually revealing, that left to strips between her stomach and her breasts open. A pair of high-waisted, double-pleated skirts that came about halfway down her thighs, and a pair of knee-socks which were little more than sheer leggings, came to just below her knees. A navy blue jacket, with STAFF printed along the back, had been tied around her waist by the sleeves. It swung around her body as she turned back and forth.

A slight popping sound drew her attention, and she started as an arm reached around the beer fridge. It was holding a blue-labelled brown bottle of Bud Light. Glistening lines of condensation stood out along the edges of the dark glass, promising her that the liquid inside was cold. A moment later, a man's body followed the bottle. He was tall and handsome; slightly broad-faced, with a windswept look that she enjoyed.

He had obviously been chosen to work the beer tent because he was attractive. And attentive, too--Isabella thought. She hadn't even noticed the man, but he had obviously noticed her. She accepted the beer bottle from his hand, and he tapped the top of his own against it.

"Yeah, you're lookin' good." He gave her a grin. The words could have been creepy, but his expression made them smooth--he was hitting on her, for sure, but it was more good-natured appreciation than leering.

"Thanks." She clinked her beer bottle against his, "Isabella, SFX."

"Pierce," he lifted himself onto one of the folding tables that functioned as a make-shift bar top, "Bud rep."

"I figured."

"Yeah?" He grinned, "What gave it away?"

"Just have that look about you." She laughed, "If I saw you in a grocery store, I'd immediately go that guy--Bud Boy, for sure."

"Bud Boy," he rubbed a finger and a thumb over his strong chin, "I like that."

"Sorry, patented it earlier."

He snapped his fingers. They shared a smile, and he hopped down off the table. Glancing at the second beer fridge, which he was obviously in the middle of stocking, he let out a long sigh. He crouched down, setting his beer on top of a stiff cardboard box, and then glanced at her.

"We're at 7b, if you're looking for a good party in the next couple of days. Just look for the big Bud Light camper--or the blue RV with the boys dancing on the roof. That'll be us."

She smiled, lifting her beer in a salute, "That sounds fun, actually. I'll definitely try to make it. Any chance there's stripping involved?--from the dancing boys, that is."

"Usually is," his eye dropped in a good-natured wink, "Nice to meet you, Isabella. Hope to see you around."

"You will be," she returned the wink, turning away from the table, "Later, Bud Boy."

She made one stop on the way home, picking up a bottle of SQRRL and a bottle of Jamesons from the Safeway Liquor. As she steered her beat-up, dark blue Honda Civic back into the parking lot of the hotel, she pulled the keys and tucked them into the pocket of her concert jacket. They bumped against her bare thigh as she grabbed the paper bag from the passenger seat and pushed the car door closed. It let out a low creak of protest, and she eyed it vindictively.

Next concert, I'll get you fixed up old boy.

She nodded to the young woman behind the concierge desk, making her way quickly across the lobby to the elevators. Then, thinking better about it, she turned and took the stairs instead. The staircase opened a few doors down from her room. Pausing at her door, 316, she spared a second to look left--toward the door of the two young mens' room. She hesitated with her hand around the door handle, and then let out a small sigh. Dropping her hand, she set off down the hallway. It took her all of a dozen steps, and then she was standing in front of 314. Raising a hand, she knocked. Even as gently as she had knocked, her knuckles sounded demanding against the wood in the otherwise silent hallway. She only had to wait for a moment; the next, the door was swinging open.

It was the man she had seen smoking. His white teeth showed against his dark skin--his smile held a hint of uncertainty, but it was bright and welcoming.

"Hey--you again."

"Me again," Isabella pulled the bottle of Jameson out of the paper bag in her hand and held it out to him, "Just to say thanks for... well, for last night." She pulled a face, and the man laughed. He had a similar laugh to the first man; it was deep, and brought a small flush to her face. She hoped that the sun had darkened her cheeks enough that afternoon to hide it. Reaching out, the man accepted the bottle of Jameson from her outstretched hand.

"Wow, that's--a lot." He held out his free hand to her, and she took it. His handshake was stronger than his friends', "I'm Michael, by the way."

"Isabella," she replied, "I didn't catch your friends' name, last night."

"Rierson," he turned over his shoulder and grinned. The door opened slightly wider, revealing the second man as he approached it. He was stretching, his arms wrapped over his already tall body; he had obviously been napping, because he blinked a few times--and he was wearing only a pair of dark red spandex briefs and a black tee-shirt. He didn't seem embarrassed about it. She, on the other hand, had to focus pointedly on returning the man's friendly smile; if she looked down, she knew that her blush would become obvious, sun or not. Unfortunately, not looking directly at it did not make the obvious outline of the man's penis any better; in fact, from the bottom of her eye, she could only take a pretty good guess as its size--a very good guess.

"You didn't have to do that," he took the bottle from Michael's hand, turning it over to see the label. He whistled softly, "Damn--you really didn't have to do that." He didn't hand the bottle back to her, though. Instead, he disappeared into the kitchen.

"Come on in!" He called. Michael turned his head toward the kitchen, obviously fixing the other man with a stare.

Isabella held up her hands, forestalling his words, "Oh, no. That's okay. I was going to go and take a shower--I've been working in a field all day."

"She's working over at Palisades," she heard Rierson call to Michael from the kitchen. He reappeared a moment later, holding three plastic glasses of Jameson between his fingers, "One drink." His smile perfectly balanced charming and inviting, "I know what I said about my daughter last night, but... Well, if you let Mike and I drink this ourselves we're going to be too drunk to go out tonight."

Isabella hesitated, and then returned the man's smile.

"Well, alright... I suppose a drink wouldn't hurt."

She stepped through the doorway, setting the bottle in its paper bag down on the entranceway table. Michael closed the door behind her, and eased around her as she undid her shoes on the mat in front of the door. Their room was lain out exactly the same as hers, except for their own possessions. A number of mens' clothing items were scattered over the floor. Her eyes went to the couch, and something ticked off in her brain--it held the shape of a check mark, like the lists she did for her stage checks.

It took her a moment to realize that she had been checking to see if the pull-out had been used. It hadn't. Which meant either they were fastidious cleaners--one look around the room dismissed that idea. Not that it was messy; it was slightly mussed, but clean, and had a pleasant lived-in feel that hers didn't quite achieve--or they were sharing the bed. She accepted the cup that Rierson passed her, and saw Mike do the same. She followed the mens' lead as they made their way to the couches. Dropping onto the firm white-beige cushions, she sighed and stretched out her legs.

"Long day?" Michael asked.

"Long," she nodded and sipped her Jameson. It had a pleasant, warm feeling; she felt the stress of the afternoon fade back immediately, "but not bad. You guys are headed to the concert?"

"Second day." Rierson spoke up, "I'm there for the punk-rock."

"You're a punk?" She eyed him.

"New blood," he chuckled, "I'm looking forward to PVRIS, and New Found Glory."

"They're awesome. I saw PVRIS a couple years ago at the Underground in Toronto--they put on a good show. I don't think you'll be disappointed."

"Don't expect so," Rierson shrugged, "So, you been working concerts for awhile...?"

They spoke as the sun set outside of the windows; drinks emptied, and Michael went to refill them twice. Isabella felt herself relaxing in the mens' presence. They made it easy; Michael was slightly more reserved, but had a solid, pleasing kind of energy. Rierson was dynamic; he laughed as much as he spoke, and questioned her about her work with genuine interest.

During a pause in conversation, while they were all staring at the lights of Spokane out of the glass window-door of the balcony, Isabella snuck a glance at Rierson. She liked Michael, but if she had to pick one she knew it was going to be Rierson. She knew that the whiskey was making her bold, because her thoughts pushed back immediately--choose one? She wrenched the thought down before she could finish it, but she still felt a slight flush creep up through her neck and into her cheeks, her heartbeat picking up ever so slightly. She pretended to stretch, tightening her crossed legs against one another and flexing her arms straight out in front of her.

As she did so, Michael glanced at her. His dark eyes blinked once, and he reached over to put a hand on her leg. It was a completely natural gesture, meant only to draw her attention--he didn't even seem to notice he had done it, though it made Isabella keenly aware of his presence on the couch beside her.

He looked into her eyes for a moment before speaking. As he did so, she caught something that she had missed before; a steadiness to his dark brown eyes, a firmness in the hand against her bare thigh--maybe she had been slightly hasty in saying that Rierson was the more attractive of the men. He was more outgoing, to be sure, but Michael had a special kind of quality that was all his own. Without her permission, her imagination had him pressing her against the couch cushions, her head thrown back over the armrest, his mouth--she buried the blur of images, but she couldn't stop the heat that went through her cheeks, and between her legs, that the air-conditioning of the room did nothing to help.

She felt his hand disappear from her thigh. Unfortunately, it did nothing to lessen the vigor of the images in her head.

"Sorry, Isabella--you're probably exhausted. Please don't let us keep you. We've got a whole evening ahead of us, and you probably need to sleep early to get ready for your concert."

She dismissed his concern, "I wouldn't sleep until 3am

anyways." A glance at the stove-top clock told her that it was 8:19pm, and she smiled, "Besides, I'm enjoying your company."

"And us yours," Rierson grinned at her.

Come on! He hadn't even said anything hinting, but that resonant voice of his made every word attractive. She certainly wasn't drunk, but Isabella knew that she had drank more than she had meant to, and did so on an empty stomach. The whiskey had a warm, pleasant buzz going on in her body.

"Sorry guys, I've gotta ask--are you guys... uh...." she trailed off, unsure how to finish the question. Thankfully, she didn't need to. Rierson glanced at her, and then looked at Michael. He appeared thoughtful.

"Gay?" He provided.

"Yeah--thanks. Are you guys together?"

To her surprise, both men hesitated. They shared a long look, and Michael's shoulders moved in a slight approximation of a shrug.

"I suppose we are in a way. We slept together a couple of times--" his deep voice made her eyebrows rise; this time, she failed to banish the images completely. At the same time as her arousal, Isabella's disappointment rose around it. She shook her head, taking a sip of Jameson from the plastic cup in her hand.

"Never lucky," she said. On the far couch, Rierson broke the slightly humming quiet of the apartment room in a burst of deep laughter.

"--but we also sleep with other people... together." Michael finished.

"Oh," the word was barely more than an exhale. This time, the heat that flooded Isabella's cheeks was profound embarrassment--she closed her eyes, pressing her teeth into her bottom lip and raising the back of her hand to her forehead, as if to cover her face, "That's embarrassing--fuck."

Rierson's laughter faded slightly, but she could hear the smile in his words as he spoke next, "Is that a good fuck, or a fuck fuck?"

She could just get up and leave, Isabella knew--neither of the men would make a move to stop her. She could just bid them a good night, go back to her own room, and drink enough to forget that she'd be waking up with the taste of her own foot in her mouth. She could almost see the cross-roads in front of her, stretching off in two very different directions. She could leave--or, she could commit.

"It's--fuck it."

She leaned forward to place her plastic cup on the glass table. Then, using the momentum of the same movement, she rolled sideways.

She felt Michael's body lean back slightly into the beige fold of the backrest as she straddled him. The sudden gesture lifted the short skirt up around her thighs as her knees bent, pressing deep into the couch cushions. Under her skirt, she wore only a pair of black lace underwear. She felt Michael's penis clearly as it leapt up, pressing through the slightly stretchy fabric of his dress pants. She lowered her face, catching his mouth with her own. As his hands went around her waist, holding firmly to either side of her hips, Isabella felt suddenly smaller than she had a moment previously--but the fire of bravery inside of her more than made up for it.

She parted the man's lips with her own, feeling the wet length of his tongue move against hers. Between the man's hands, she began rocking back and forth in gentle, drawn-out motions. She worked the face of her underwear along the man's shaft as they kissed. Even through his pants, she could tell that he was large. Not as long as the outline she had glimpsed through Rierson's briefs, perhaps, but definitely wider. Continuing to roll her hips, she explored the man's mouth with her tongue.

He tasted of the whiskey that they had been drinking. His hands held slightly more firmly to her waist, but he made no move to stop her. Instead, he lifted her slightly so that the length of his penis was rubbing against the front of her vulva through her underwear, rather than the bottom. She let a gentle moan out into the man's mouth.

Isabella's voice pitched slightly higher and then deepened as she felt a second set of hands against her hips, going over Michael's. They slid down over her skirt, touching the bare skin of her thighs, and then back up beneath the fabric. She felt his fingers catch the slim band of her underwear, and she made no move to stop him as he pulled the sheer fabric down her thighs and over her spread knees--it was the end of a good pair, she knew; at that moment, she didn't care. She pressed Michael back into the cushions of the couch, wrapping her arms around the back of his head and raising her back end. She expected to feel Rierson's penis--what she didn't expect to feel was his mouth. She gasped, taking hot air from inside of Michael's mouth as she did so. Then she pulled down suddenly, rolling away from the men.

Rierson stepped back, holding his suddenly empty hands in front of him. His dark eyes were wide--concerned. She saw Michael's head turn as he sat back up on the couch, his expression identical to the other man's.

"Sorry!" Rierson took a half-step backward, "Sorry, I thought--"

"Oh I do," she unfolded her legs as she stood from the couch, "but you guys smell..." intoxicating?, "incredible--and I need a shower before that mouth of yours goes anywhere... lower."

"Well shit," Rierson's hands went to his stomach, lifting his shirt over his head and then balling it so that he could toss it onto the couch.

Despite his size and his the curve of muscle in his arms and shoulders, he wasn't ripped--her eyes went over his body quickly. The muscles of his chest and stomach weren't quite as toned as those in his arms, and a slight paunch of fat stood out over his pelvis; a fact that Isabella found both comforting and extremely attractive. A slim trail of dark hair stood out in curls over his chest and made a line down the center of his stomach, widening slightly as it reached his pelvis. He was obviously well-groomed; he looked strong. Healthy... Hearty, the word came to her suddenly.

"Mind some company?" He asked.

Isabella inhaled quickly as the man's hands went around her body--he stood nearly a foot taller than she did, and her to lean down slightly to kiss her. She could taste whiskey on his breath as well, and beneath it something else; minty, like toothpaste or chewing gum. She pressed the front of her body against his as his hands went down over his hips and took hold of her bum cheeks through her skirt. He palmed them easily, giving both a gentle squeeze. It sent a shiver of pleasure through her body. Leaning back in the man's arms, she trailed two fingers down the front of his body.

"It would be my pleasure," she smiled, and got a flash of white teeth in return.

"Yes," Rierson's deep voice spoke from above her, "I think it will be."

Slipping out from the man's hands, she made her way toward the bathroom--there would be towels on the racks, she knew. As she walked, she turned back to where the men were standing. Michael had risen from the couch, and was busy working the shirt over his head. Reaching behind her, Isabella undid the three clasps that held up her lacy shirt and held it draped over two fingers before letting it fall to the ground. She saw the men's dark eyes move down over her body. Reaching the bathroom, she made a show of putting her fingers in the top of her socks and rolling them down her legs. She winked as she disappeared through the bathroom doorway.

She didn't have to wait long. A moment later, Michael appeared in the open door. Isabella barely had time for a breath this time. The man grabbed her by the waist, and she wrapped her legs around his body as he lifted her easily. He sat her on the sink counter, pressing between her legs as he leaned in to kiss her.

They kissed feverishly, her long-nailed fingers trailing down the sides of his body as he pushed his tongue into her mouth. Isabella's eyes were closed, but she could hear the bathroom fan come on and the shower begin to run as Rierson worked around them. This close, she could smell the light scent of Michael's deodorant, and the heavier musk of his arousal beneath it. She inhaled sharply as he picked her up from the counter, setting her back on her feet. As he did, she caught the edge of his underwear with her thumb. Walking him back against the wall, she worked them down, having to pull the fabric out and away from his body to make room for his now-hard penis.