Rush

Rush and the others are all looking expectantly at me, waiting to hear what it was like for me, this incredible moment that they all made me a part of.

I can’t hold it in any longer. A smile breaks over my face and the words spill out in a way that I never, ever let them. “This whole experience has been insane from start to finish, and it’s going to continue to be insane. You all never made me feel anything but ten thousand percent welcome. You’re all magical.”

I break off before I can add, and I don’t even know what I’m doing here. No more imposter talk. The video is out there. I went out there, on stage with Rush. I let everyone see me, and now there’s no going back.

Anders is still holding his glass out to me. I lift mine and tap it against his, and the others all bring theirs in for the toast. The sick feeling in my belly finally dissipates, and when I bring my glass to my lips, I can finally taste the wine.

Rush leans close and murmurs in my ear, “Now do as you’re told and eat your dinner.”

I feel myself blush as I hear Rush use that voice on me. I pick up my fork and have a mouthful of spaghetti and pesto, and it’s delicious.

The mood around the table relaxes, but it seems like Ulf has more to say. “So, are you going to introduce us to your girlfriend or what, Rush?”

Wes chews his salad, his expression thoughtful. “Yeah, didn’t she knock you back that night at Baroque? I seem to remember you trying to hook Dree in then and she turned you down flat.”

“Shut up,” Rush tells him with a grin.

I twist my fork around my pasta, trying to put into words what their bandmate means to me. “Rush is the scariest person I’ve ever met. He takes the world in both hands and makes it his, but he does it with the utmost love and sincerity. How could I not fall in love with him?”

Ulf blinks at me. There’s silence all around the table. Then he turns to Rush with a severe expression. “She gets you. Don’t fuck this up.”

“I won’t.” Rush squeezes my waist and dips his head down to lean it against mine, murmuring, “This is the best day of my life.”

“You woke up in jail,” I point out.

He smiles and pushes his fingers through his hair. “That just makes life interesting. I wonder where I’ll end up tomorrow?”

I fix him with a serious expression. I can’t be so blasé when there’s a chance he might be heading straight to prison. “Don’t tempt fate.”

“But I’m in your hands, Priestess. Nothing can go wrong.”

After dinner, we all head into the living room with our beer and wine, which turn into vodka and whisky, and an impromptu party happens with music and dancing barefoot on the carpet.

It’s late when I collapse on the sofa next to Rush. Anders and Ulf are standing on the other side of the room, arguing about a show they saw years ago and who the support act was.

A song is playing over the sound system with a sparse and melancholy riff.

Rush takes my hand with his, threads his fingers through mine and squeezes them tightly. “You know this track, ‘The Man Who Sold the World’? It’s a Bowie track. Nirvana covered it in the nineties. Kids would come up to Bowie after his shows and say, ‘It’s cool you’re covering a Nirvana song.’ And Bowie would smile but think to himself—” Rush uses a South London accent “‘—Fuck you, you l’il tossers! It’s my song.’”

I laugh as I imagine the indignity of being as famous as David Bowie and having kids think your own song is a cover. Maybe I can relax tonight after all.

Rush pulls me into his arms and murmurs, his lips moving against my mouth, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.”

His tongue flicks my top lip, and I whimper.

Hard same.

When I glance over my shoulder, I see that everyone’s drifted out of the room, and we’re alone. I run my hand up and down the length of his cock in his jeans. We watch each other for a moment, that cat-like gaze of his burning into my own.

“Where were we when we left off?” he asks.

“I was having a meltdown on your bedroom floor.”

He kisses me gently and pulls me astride his lap. “Then let’s pick up right there. Say you’re mine, Dree.”

As I gaze down into his handsome face, I feel none of the panic that those words provoked the last time he said them. Being his means being protected and cherished by him, no matter what.

Being his means being loved by him.

And that’s everything.

“I’m yours, Daddy.”