Pure Iron (16 page)

He crossed around the front of the truck and hopped into the driver’s seat.

“Ready?” he asked.

She expected that was a rhetorical question and just nodded. He flashed another grin at her, turned on the ignition, and set the vehicle in gear. Resting the left hand on the steering wheel, his right hand crept beneath the froth of material to stroke her intimately. Sonia gasped, but could not help but tilt her hips toward his questing fingers. She gasped again when his fingers slid beneath the wet crotch of her panties. And minutes later she pulsed around him, keening as his clever fingers coaxed yet another orgasm from her body.

With one last stroke, he withdrew his hand and stuck his fingers in his mouth to suck off her musky moisture. His expression was one of masculine satisfaction as he eyed the flush of her skin.

“I love the way you taste.”

Sonia leaned her head back against the seat. She looked beneath her lashes and realized that her hard nipples pressed obscenely against the fabric of her bodice.

“I can’t believe you just did that?”

“What, touched you?”

“Made me cum in your truck while you’re driving!”

“Just proves that men can multitask, too, babe.”

The quip made a chuckle bubble from her throat.

“Mick, I think I’ll be rocking that slutty look after all.”

“No way, babe. You’re a little wrinkled, but not slutty.” He gestured with his hand toward the crowd lined up at the ticket gates. “See?”

Sonia’s eyes opened wide. The only way to show more skin than what a large portion of the female concert goers was wearing would have been to show up naked. She saw everything from micro minis to bikinis that looked to be made of little more than sequins strategically pasted in place.

The truck pulled up to the back gate where security personnel verified Mick’s identity.

“Who’s she?” one of the guards asked.

“She’s not authorized personnel,” the other guard said. “She’ll have to go around front like everyone else.”

“She is my wife and she comes with me,” Mick said firmly.

The two guards looked at them suspiciously. With a snort of impatience, Mick held up Sonia’s left hand to display the wedding ring. He held up his left hand to show the matching band.

“My. Wife. Get it?” he snapped.

“Uh, sure, Mr. Hendriksen,” the guard said and waved him on through.

Mick drove as though he knew where he was going, which was good because to Sonia the whole back area of the concert venue seemed to be utterly chaotic. Of course, a commercial kitchen looked chaotic to the average observer, though she knew there was order to it. She supposed the same principle applied.

He parked near a truck that bore the band’s logo and hopped out. He crossed around back to retrieve the fiddle, opened the passenger side door with old fashioned courtesy, and handed Sonia down from the cab.

“Hey, Mick!” one of the roadies called out and waved as he approached.

Mick smiled and waved back. “Hey, Joey! How’s set-up coming along?”

“We’re about ready for sound check,” the grizzled roadie informed him, his curious gaze focused on the pretty blonde in a pink dress. “It’s not like you to bring one of your girls back here, Mick.”

Mick forced a smile and said politely, “Joey, meet my wife, Sonia. Sonia, this is Joey. He’s been with us since we started touring and has worked with some of the greats.”

“Wife, eh?” Joey said and held out his hand for her to shake. Sonia took it and murmured a polite hello. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Quit, Joey. You’re giving her a bad impression of me.”

The roadie laughed and shook his head. “Mick, my boy, if you can be tamed, then there’s hope for all mankind after all.”

The rock star just shook his head, knowing there was nothing to be gained by taking that topic of conversation further. Instead, he said, “I’ll carry the fiddle with me if you don’t mind transporting the guitars to the stage. They’re in the back of the truck. Point me to the stage entrance, would you?”

“Sure, Mick.” Joey pointed as he headed toward the truck’s bed. “Want me to find a chair for your wife? I assume she’ll wait for you backstage.”

“Yeah, that would be good. Thanks.”

“No prob. By the way, the rest of the band’s here.”

“Good. I’ll find them.”

Mick held Sonia’s hand, as much to show ownership as to keep her from getting lost in the chaos, as they walked in the direction the roadie pointed toward. The violin in its hard, protective case, was slung over his shoulder and rested against his back like a quiver full of arrows. Sonia looked around as they walked, not caring that she gawped like the veriest country bumpkin. Numerous busses and trucks emblazoned with famous names and logos studded the lot. The music festival was a pretty big deal, she realized.

Other people called greetings and waved to Mick, who returned their salutations with a grin until one woman dressed almost entirely in black leather approached. Her short hair was dyed black. Heavy black makeup ringed her eyes. Her lips and fingernails were painted black. A cigarette dangled from her mouth. Her eyes were bloodshot and her nostrils were reddened. Her black leather vest left a lot of ink on display, designs featuring drops of blood, skulls, pentagrams, and other dark and violent symbols. Sonia though she looked ghastly, but kept her opinion to herself.

“Hey, Mick, who’s the chickie?” the woman inquired between drags on the cigarette.

“Jet, this is Sonia, my wife,” Mick replied, not seeing a good way to avoid that confrontation.

“Oh, fuck, the tabloids actually got something right?” the woman sneered. She looked the other woman up and down and dismissed her. “Come to my bus after the show. We’ll have a good time.”

“No, thanks,” Mick replied.

“You cannot seriously expect me to believe that you married a fifties housewife and are happy about it,” Jet snarled. “Dump this publicity stunt and see me after the show.”

“Jet, I have a rule against hitting women, but I’m tempted to make an exception just for you,” Mick growled. “Don’t insult my wife and leave us be. Please.”

With that, he walked away, pulling Sonia along with him. She skipped a few steps to catch up.

“Who was that?” she demanded.

“That is Jet, of Jet Fueled. They’re a hardcore, head-banging metal band. I want you to stay away from them.”

She looked askance at her husband, suspecting that Mick and Jet had been lovers. He caught the direction of her thoughts and paused in his tracks. He took her other hand in his and said, “Sonia, yes, I slept with Jet. More than once because she was a fucking animal in the sack, especially when high. But there’s no affection between us. In my early twenties she got me hooked on drugs. I’ve been clean for six years now. Hell, I don’t even drink much anymore.”

He repeated his admonition to avoid them: “I want you to stay away from her and the rest of her band. They’re bad news. They’ll hurt you just for the pleasure of it.”

“You won’t—?”

“No,” he said firmly. “I will not ever touch her again. I haven’t touched her in years.”

Sonia sighed with relief. “Good. She’s creepy.”

They resumed walking.

“Wow, they got the old man himself out here,” Mick marveled, staring at a much older man who lounged outside a plainly painted bus and lazily strummed a guitar. His eyes were closed.

“Who?”

“Barry Gilverie.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Want to meet him?”

“Absolutely!”

“So do I,” Mick grinned. “Let’s go introduce ourselves.”

They quietly approached the famous musician. A short distance away, they stopped and Mick slung the violin off his shoulder and removed it from its case. He listened to the music for a moment and, putting the fiddle under his chin, began to play along. The man’s mouth curled into a smile and his fingers deftly complicated the simple tune. Mick followed right along, adding his own flourishes.

The man opened his eyes, blinked, and complimented in his trademarked gravelly voice, “You’re good, kid.”

Mick lowered the violin and grinned. “I couldn’t resist, sir.”

The man snorted. “Sir. Don’t call me that.” He stuck out his hand and said, “I’m Barry. Nice to meet you, kid. Who’s the pretty girl with you?”

Sonia nearly gasped when the man, who looked a decade or so older than her father, leveled brilliant green eyes at her. His gaze was not avuncular. And she could not help but respond to the weird attraction he exuded.

“I’m Mick Hendriksen. This is my wife, Sonia. We’re thrilled to meet you.”

At the mention of “wife,” the man’s predatory gaze faded and Sonia unobtrusively breathed a sigh of relief.

“You’re with Iron Falcon,” Barry stated with a nod.

“Yes.”

Barry Gilverie nodded curtly. “You’re probably headed for sound check. I won’t keep you.”

Mick and Sonia acknowledged the dismissal and turned to leave, muttering “nice to meet yous” at him. But the famous musician hadn’t finished yet: “Keep an eye on your girl. Some folks around here are prowling for fresh meat.”

Mick, who hadn’t missed the interest in Gilverie’s gaze, nodded sharply. He put the violin back in its case and slung it over his shoulder.

“That was just a little creepy, too,” Sonia muttered as they walked toward the stage. She caught sight of the band; Jack waved at them. She continued to look around as they walked and commented, “People watching around here is like shopping at Walmart late at night.”

Mick snorted his amusement.

Privately, he supposed she had a point. The rock ‘n roll scene certainly attracted some odd ducks.

“Hey, guys, are we set up?” he asked as they drew close.

Jack looked admiringly at Sonia and smiled that trademarked, panty-dropping smile. She smiled back, eyes glinting with cynical resistance.

“Well, aren’t you pretty this evening?” he said.

“Thank you, Jack. You’re looking … er ...” she faltered for a suitable word that wouldn’t sound either patronizing or insulting.

“He’s pretty, too,” Angelo joked. “Even if he won’t admit it.”

The others laughed and the awkward moment passed.

“Hey, guys,” Mick said, “Help me keep an eye on Sonia tonight.”

Sonia bristled, wanting to protest that she was a big girl and could take care of herself. However, Barry Gilverie made her uncomfortable, and she did not know how many of the musicians running about would feel themselves entitled to sample whatever took their fancy.

Kristof raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry.

“We met Barry Gilverie. I didn’t like the way he looked at Sonia,” Mick admitted, keeping his voice quiet. “And I don’t think anyone here would stand up against him if he decided to drag her off somewhere.”

“You’re assuming she’d be unwilling, kid,” said that distinctive voice from behind them.

Mick went very still. Sonia gasped, turned pale, and then turned around to face the world famous musician. His weirdly brilliant, green eyes glittered down at her. She swallowed hard, determinedly ignored the very strange attraction, and grabbed on to her courage with both hands.

“I would be unwilling, Mr. Gilverie,” she said, wanting to heave a sigh of relief because her voice was steady, not the breathy squeak she feared would come out.

The man nodded at her, a faint smile gracing his mouth. “Pity,” he said. “I would have enjoyed teaching you a few things.”

He touched the back of his fingers to her cheek in a light caress, then dropped his hand. With a nod to Iron Falcon, he walked away.

“I need to sit,” Sonia said faintly as her legs buckled. Jack, the only one who had both hands free, caught her. Angelo lunged for a chair and brought it over. Jack guided her to the chair and she sat, breathing deeply, fighting nausea. One of the alert roadies nearby raced over and offered a bottle of water and said, “Drink, before you upchuck.” She sipped at the water.

The roadie glanced up and watched the legendary musician walk toward the stage. He shook his head and said in awe, “I don’t believe I have ever seen any woman turn him down. Ever.” He looked back at Iron Falcon. “And I’ve been on the road with him for the last thirty-six years.”

“It’s like he’s one of those TV or movie vampires or something and can compel someone just by looking into her eyes,” Kristof marveled.

“Man’s got charisma in spades, but doesn’t necessarily use his power for good, you know?” the roadie said.

Sonia shuddered. She handed the water back to the roadie and croaked, “Thanks.”

The roadie crouched down in front of her, knees creaking, and he put a hand on her knee. “Miss, I love Barry like a brother and admire him as a musician, but you stay away from him. He’s no good for a sweet girl like you.”

Having imparted his advice, he stood, gave the band members a friendly nod, then walked away so he could return to whatever it was that their little drama had interrupted.

A harried, middle aged woman with a table approached. She was flanked by two assistants. With cold, hard eyes, she looked over the group and said, “Iron Falcon, present. Boys, you’re eleventh in tonight’s lineup, after Triple-Z. The roster’s posted on the far wall. Don’t be late. We’ve got to keep the program moving.” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “It’s a madhouse out there.” She glanced at Sonia, still sitting in the folding chair. “No groupies backstage, either.”