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PART ONE
"I have opinions. And if that makes me a troublesome wanker as far as record companies are concerned, so what?" Steve was saying as he waved one large, pale hand dismissively. "They seem to think that once you show promise of earning them a big return on your investment, you're their blank slate to do with whatever the fuck they want. To me, that's bullshit. Pete and I are the artists. We know our fans, we know how they want to see us. Talent departments don't know shit."
We were sitting on a sofa in an out-of-the-way section of the Soho club where Dead Or Alive had just completed a 45 minute set. I was trying to conduct an interview for the pop magazine that had been cool enough to take me on as a summer intern. The raw disco music didn't deafen us here, but it was still hard to concentrate on my job when two Warhol look-alikes were giggling and groaning in the shadows across from us, and a rainbow-haired raver was puking his guts out in the nearby toilet. Steve seemed unfazed by it all, talking as calmly as if we were comfortably ensconced in a TV studio or magazine interview room.
"What are your plans regarding a possible tour?" I asked.
"No plans there. Putting out the album was hard work." Steve paused to take a swig of beer. "We're doing the odd PA here in England, but until October at least, we plan to take things easy- redecorate the house at long last, maybe go back to Liverpool for a couple weeks." He flashed me a wicked grin. "And get laid of course. Recording booths and remixing are hazardous to the sex life."
"Oh really? And who would be your ideal lay?" I blurted it out a millisecond before I tried to shut myself up. Thank God it was dimly lit in here or he would have seen my face turn twenty shades of scarlet. It's the fucking booze, I thought, I'm starting to blather like an idiot. But as I blushed and squirmed under his now intense stare, I had to admit that my own lust had played no small role in that brazen question.
He was wearing a tight black T-shirt, leather jeans that fit him like a second skin, and durable black leather boots, an ensemble that made his already pale skin seem supernaturally white. He'd tied a navy bandana around his head, which held his long black hair away from his canyon cliff cheekbones and strong, intense features. Unlike his friend and band frontman Pete Burns, he wore no makeup save thin rings of eyeliner around his lids. Obviously not gay, but not a blue-collar masculine bore either. The combined effect was making me warm under the collar and reminding me that I hadn't had sex in three months.
Steve was unruffled by my question. Or at least he appeared to be. "You really want an answer to that? Alright, let's see. Rose MacGowan's not bad, but if Marilyn Manson's in on the package, forget it. I also like that girl in the SCREAM films, don't remember her name." He paused for another gulp of beer, then reclined on the sofa backing. "What about you, KC?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"I said�" he drew out his words slowly, slyly, " who would you screw if you had the chance? You asked me."
I stared at him, throat becoming so tight with sexual tension that I could barely speak. "I..I don't think I'm the one being interviewed, Mr. Coy."
He laughed. "Come on, love, I came clean. You got a nice quote for your paper. Now you answer."
"All right." Anything to make him happy, get out of here, and fly to the nearest convenience store for vibrator batteries. "Brad Pitt."
Steve Coy laughed again. It was a strong, predatory sound this time. "Boring, very boring. And also untrue."
"What do you mean by that?" I held my notebook over my breasts and drew back slightly.
The corner of his mouth curled. "Because you fancy me."
"That's ridiculous!" I sputtered. "I- I mean-"
"Ridiculous?" Steve snatched the binder out of my hands, exposing how my rigid nipples poked against my silk tank top. Before I could protest, he seized the shirt hem, yanked it up so roughly that his knuckles bumped my chin, and revealed my braless tits to the world. Well, the part of the world that was hanging out in this dive at three am. "Look at you. Either you're cold in this fucking sweatbox they call a club, or you're ready to quit working and start playing any second."
I was too shocked to verbally protest. My hands flew up to cover myself against his scrutiny- he caught my wrists and forced them back down into my lap.
"I want to look at you. Sit still," he commanded.
I obeyed and fell back against the sofa cushions, looking like a perfect slag with my blouse up and miniskirt riding up my thighs. Steve leaned forward, so close his breath and body heat warmed my skin, and ran the fingers of one hand lightly up my thigh, towards my hip.
"Tell me you want me," he ordered.
"No," I croaked.
"Say it." His white hand, startling against my tanned skin, was now resting on the crease between my upper thigh and belly. By this point I was so wet that my desperate body was committing upholstery murder. "Say it right now or I'll know for sure that I've read your signals wrong and we can go our separate ways."
I'd never been exposed in a semi-public place like this, in the presence of someone who first ignited my desire and then used it as a cruel, sweet weapon. Part of me wanted to cover up, run to the nearest Catholic church, and say a dozen Hail Marys for my contaminated soul. The other part (which was fast taking over) desperately wanted him to throw his strong, lithe body on top of me and fuck me to scream city. He had quite a weapon to work with too: before they dimmed the lights in this area, I couldn't help but notice how his inside trouser leg bulged to mid-thigh. He was a big boy all right, with powerful shoulders and a wiry build that promised a marathon fuck. I took a deep breath and made my decision.
"I want you. Fuck me now."
Before he could react, I took the role of aggressor. Grabbing the collar of his T-shirt, I fell flat on my back on the sofa and pulled him on top of me. The rough fabric of his shirt rubbed my swollen tits as his lips met mine in one violent clash. Our tongues wrestled fiercely. My senses swirled as I gasped and breathed in his scent- an intoxicating combo of sweat, beer, and Drakkar cologne. By now my skirt was above my waist, and I could feel his hardness, restrained by his zipper, pressing urgently against me.
"FUCK," Steve hissed as he bit and sucked at my neck, "I don't have a goddamn condom. We're going to have to-"
"I have one. In my purse," I whispered back. For what seemed like an eternity I fumbled in the darkness on the floor, tortured by the feel of his imprisoned hardon poking at my swollen, wet opening. I almost fainted in relief when my probing fingers finally darted into my handbag and closed over the foil packet. Not a second too soon- Steve's own hands had been busy. He had raised himself onto his knees, between my spread thighs, and extracted his raging hardon from its leather prison. I couldn't see it clearly in the dimness, but the way his fingers stretched to encircle it was impressive. His other hand was probing inside me, teasing my clitoris with his thumb while he fanned his fingers out and stretched me further. The dirty light spilling through the partly ajar door played on his sweaty shoulder muscles, making them glisten and ripple.
He took the condom urgently, extracting his hand at the same time. Even over the club music downstairs I could still hear the rip of the foil packet and desperate sound of our combined breathing. I tried to watch, but the shadows made it impossible. Then he was on top of me again, his rock-hard chest pressing me into the sofa cushions. He thrust once, filling me with such a huge tool that I felt like a virgin again. He shoved his tongue in my mouth to muffle my screams, and started pounding me fast and hard. No foreplay for this boy. He was fast, rough, and obsessed with getting off. Fine by me!!!!
My fingernails raked his back as I met each push with one of my own. The sofa creaked warningly but we kept at it. When I felt his thrusts become more frenzied, signaling orgasm on the horizon, I arched my hips so that my clit got more aggressive friction applied to it. At the same time my internal muscles clamped down on his dick. That did it for both of us: with a guttural cry his entire body went rigid and shot his wad into the rubber, while I flooded the cushions beneath us.
I don't know how long we laid there, breathing heavily and letting ourselves wind down. But I quickly became aware that we weren't alone any longer. I can't describe it- but before I actually opened my eyes and looked around, I knew there was someone watching.
Pete Burns, Glamazon extraordinaire, was sitting on the chair across the coffee table, still dressed in the red embroidered pants suit he had work on stage that night. His long, jet black hair still looked perfect, and his makeup job remained unblemished by sweat marks or lipstick bleeding. He was watching us, collagen-puffed lips twisted in a strange grin. When he saw that we were both aware of him he rose slowly, like a lazy cat changing position. His high heels tapped on the floorboards as he circled the table, heading in our direction
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