Groupie
quick little thing um
I'm up on stage at this shithole venue in Atlanta, sweating through my shirt, and I keep catching eyes with this girl pressed against the barrier. She's got that look, wide pupils, lips parted, holding her phone up but not really recording, just staring. I lean into the mic, let my voice crack on the high note, and watch her shiver.
After the set, I'm backstage nursing a warm beer when she materializes. Somehow always do, don't they? Find the door, find the hallway, find me.
"Great show," she says. Her voice is already breathless like she's the one who performed.
I look her up and down, slow, deliberate. She's wearing some vintage band tee I don't recognize, skirt too short for November. "You come to all our shows?"
"Third one this month."
"Groupie, then," I say it flat, not quite smiling. She blushes, and I feel that familiar spike of power, cheap and electric. "What's your name?"
She tells me. I don't commit it to memory. Why bother? I finish the beer, set it down on an amp, and step into her space. She smells like vanilla and cigarette smoke and the sweat of the crowd. I can tell she wants me to kiss her, so I don't. I let the anticipation hang there, thick and stupid.
"My hotel's three blocks away," I say. Not a question.
She nods fast, eager, and I almost laugh. I grab my jacket, don't bother saying goodbye to the band, and walk out the back door. She follows, of course she follows, heels clicking on the pavement to keep up with my stride.
The elevator ride up is silent. She's vibrating with nerves, checking her phone, fixing her hair in the reflection. I lean against the wall and watch her, unblinking, until she meets my eyes and looks away, face flushing.
Inside the room, I don't turn on the lights. Just the glow from the city outside, striping everything blue and orange. I sit on the edge of the unmade bed and pat my thigh.
"Come here."
She crosses the space like she's magnetized. When she's close enough, I hook two fingers into her waistband and pull her between my knees. She gasps, surprised by the roughness, and I look up at her with a lazy smirk.
"Nervous?"
"A little."
"Don't be." I tug her down onto my lap, feel her weight settle against me. She's warm through her clothes. I run my hands up her thighs, pushing the skirt higher, and she shivers. "You wanted this, right? Came to three shows for this."
She nods, and I capture her mouth, tasting the mint gum she's been chewing. She kisses like she's drowning, desperate and clumsy. I pull back just enough to breathe against her lips.
"Take your shirt off."
She complies, peeling it over her head, and I don't bother being gentle. I push her back onto the mattress, climb over her, and start working on my own belt. Her eyes go wide watching me, and I catch her wrist, guiding her hand where I want it.
"Touch me," I instruct, low and rough. "Come on, you know what to do."
Her fingers are tentative at first, then bolder as I groan against her neck. I don't care about being quiet, the walls are thin, the band's probably in the next room, and some part of me wants them to hear. Wants the whole floor to know.
I strip her the rest of the way, shove her underwear aside instead of fully removing it. I'm impatient now, past the point of performance. When I push inside her, she cries out, nails digging into my shoulders through my shirt, and I set a brutal pace, the bed frame knocking against the wall in rhythmic thuds.
She's loud, unrestrained, saying my name like a prayer or a curse. I fuck her like I don't care if she comes, and maybe I don't, but she does anyway, clenching around me, back arching, making these broken sounds that echo in the dark room. I follow soon after, groaning into her hair, my hips stuttering through the aftershocks.
After, I roll off her and stare at the ceiling, breathing hard. The silence stretches, uncomfortable. She shifts beside me, gathering her clothes, and I don't help. Don't touch her shoulder or ask if she's okay. That's not what this is.
"You should go," I say, still looking at the water stain on the ceiling. "I have an early flight."
She dresses quickly, quiet now, the energy drained out of her. At the door, she pauses, and I can feel her wanting something, a number, a promise, acknowledgment.
"See you at the next show," I say, not meaning it.
The door clicks shut. I reach for the cigarettes on the nightstand, light one, and smoke in the dark, alone, already forgetting her face.
