Battle of the Bands, page 1
Battle of the Bands
By J.M. Snyder
Published by JMS Books LLC at Smashwords
This story is included in the print book Shorts by J.M. Snyder.
Visit http://www.jmsnyder.net for more information.
Copyright 2010 J.M. Snyder
ISBN 978-1-45240-271-0
For more titles by J.M. Snyder at Smashwords visit https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/jmsnyder
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Cover Photo Credit: Darko Novakovic
Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design: J.M. Snyder
All rights reserved.
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
NOTE: “Battle of the Bands” originally appeared online at Ruthie’s Club and also appears in the anthology Love Notes, published by Ravenous Romance.
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Battle of the Bands
By J.M. Snyder
Backstage at Catch-22’s third annual Battle of the Bands, members of the local rock group Tainted Black waited for their turn on stage. Lead singer Benjamin Cooper leaned back against the stage door, arms crossed and head down so the curtain of brown curls that hung to his chin hid his face. His drummer, Scott McKree, stood nearby, beating his drumsticks in a rapid rattat rhythm on Benjamin’s left arm. The sticks made a light popping sound on Benjamin’s leather jacket and struck so fast that he didn’t feel them. Their bassist, Mark Johnson, had wandered off in search of a joint or a soda machine, whichever he could find first.
Under the cover of his hair, Benjamin watched someone in the shadowed wings of the stage. He knew the guy, knew him well—Ty Haiden fronted a rival band called Hazard. He wasn’t hard to miss, with long black hair that fell straight down past his shoulders and dark eyes that seemed in this dim light to be all iris, wide and dilated. He had a bit of a goatee, dark hair kept short on his chin that rimmed his mouth and edged his cheeks. It gave him a devilish appearance.
As if he felt the steady weight of Benjamin’s gaze burning into him, Ty glanced over his shoulder. When their eyes locked, an arc of energy shot between them, closing the distance and canceling out everyone else, a shock that jolted Benjamin’s already racing heart and sent it plummeting to throb somewhere below his belt. Ty gave him a slight nod, just a tilt of the chin really, very professional. Nothing overt, nothing personal. Benjamin’s return smirk was hidden by his hair.
Suddenly Mark stepped in front of him, blocking his view. “So how about it?” he asked.
Benjamin forced his thoughts away from Ty Haiden. “How about what?” he wanted to know. When had he returned? “Are you talking to me?”
Mark sighed dramatically and turned to Scott instead. “What do you think about a different cover? Maybe a little Free Bird, eh Skree? We can do that, right? The change ups are wicked—”
“We ain’t changing the song now,” Benjamin muttered. According to the competition schedule, Tainted Black played next, followed by Hazard. There was no time to practice a different song…was he serious?
Mark didn’t let it drop. “But we always do the Stones, man. I’m just saying Skynard would be something new…”
Skree’s face darkened and he let up with the drumsticks long enough to give Mark a hard shove. “We’re doing the same one we always do.”
Somewhere behind him came a raucous laugh. “Too bad it sucks.”
Benjamin looked up at the voice of Nick Staver, Hazard’s drummer. The animosity between him and Skree was legendary in Richmond’s local rock scene—both bands had been disqualified from numerous competitions before due to the drummers’ fights. As he closed the distance between them, Nick jeered, “When are you losers gonna learn the words to that fucking song? You always sing it wrong. It’s painted black, you idiots.”
Skree whirled around, a drumstick held tight in either fist like a kitana sword, ready to fight. He glared down Nick and the two guitarists behind him, guys whose names Benjamin never bothered to remember. From where he stood by the stage curtain, Ty glanced their way. Stay there, Benjamin prayed. As long as Ty kept out of it, he wouldn’t have to get involved. Skree stepped up to Nick and challenged, “What are you guys doing here? This ain’t karaoke night.”
“We’re gonna wipe the stage with you, dickwad,” Nick countered. He leaned forward and his band mates made a show of keeping him back. “No way you can hold your own against me and you know it.”
“A three year old banging on pots and pans sounds better than you,” Skree insulted. It always started this way, name-calling and insults, until someone threw a punch. “Call your daughter’s daycare—maybe they’ll give you lessons.”
Nick lunged and, this time, the guitarists didn’t have to fake holding him—the muscles in their thin arms stood out like cords as they struggled to keep him from pouncing on Skree. “Don’t you dare talk about my daughter!” the drummer warned. “Where the hell do you get off—”
Suddenly Ty was there between them. “Nick,” he cautioned. His gaze flicked past Skree to Benjamin like a challenge. Over his shoulder, he told his band, “Cut it out.”
So much for staying out of the fight, Benjamin thought with a weary sigh. He unfolded himself and stepped in front of Skree. “Can’t you keep that drummer of yours under control?” Hazard’s singer asked him.
For a moment their eyes met. Benjamin felt that same energy spin out between them, a pulsing fire that burned from his throat to his groin, twisting everything inside him on the way down. Flicking his hair out of his face, he replied, “The way you do with yours.” He started to move away, thought better of it, and leaned closer to Ty. The familiar whiff of clean, sharp soap and spicy deodorant made his balls clench. To Nick, just behind the lead singer, Benjamin said softly, “It’s paint it black.” One corner of Ty’s mouth pulled up in a half smile, which encouraged Benjamin. “Next time you’re going to insult us, get it right.”
Before he could lose himself in the scent of soap and Old Spice, Benjamin turned on his heel and walked off, heading for the stage. Skree and Mark followed after him, probably casting suspicious glances back at Hazard, but Benjamin didn’t turn around to check. He didn’t want them to see the grin that threatened to split his face.
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Onstage, Benjamin leaned into the mike with the stand tilted down over the edge of the stage—a dangerous move that drove the girls in the front row wild. His lyrics were lost in the music—Skree’s drums throbbed out a primal beat, and Mark revved his bass like a racecar squealing around the track. The bass rose in pitch, drawing the song up after it, ripping the words from Benjamin’s throat in a scream of rage and lust. Sweat blinded him, slicked his hair to the back of his neck, his forehead, his cheeks. He wiped it out of his eyes and leaned towards the crowd, away from the music that pounded through him.
Chin tucked in, head down, Benjamin kept his eyes on the crowd. The look he projected from the stage was pure sex—raw, needy. A snarl, one of his best, with the slightest hint of a boyish pout, and the crowd surged around him. Hands reached for him, fingers brushed the tops of his boots and tried to find purchase in his jeans to pull him down. Behind him the music swelled higher, a climax he felt building deep within his chest, where the drum beat out the sound of his heart. He let the music sweep him away, the words mere whispers now, the song spent. Hunched over the mike, cradling it in one hand while the other held the stand out of his way, he fell to one knee and let the final lyrics drain out of him. As the last word faded and the music died away, he turned and caught a glimpse of Ty backstage.
Watching. Waiting.
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After their set, Benjamin didn’t stick around for Hazard’s performance. He didn’t have to—their song filled the club, and Skree kept up a running commentary that Benjamin could have lived without. “Wrong note,” the drummer chided as they headed for the men’s room, the closest thing to a dressing room that Catch-22 offered. Skree kicked the door open and laughed when it swung into the wall with a thin crack. “Wrong lead-in. Damn. Did you hear the stutter in that drum roll? I thought they knew this song.”
Shoving past his band mates, Benjamin shrugged out of his leather jacket and sighed when stale air cooled the sweat that stained his T-shirt. “Give it up,” he muttered. He draped his jacket over a nearby towel dispenser and turned on the water in the sink full blast.
“We’re gonna win this hands down,” Skree stated. He stood to one side of the door and held it open with his foot so he could hear Hazard’s finale. “Listen to that shit, will you?”
“I said drop it.” Benjamin leaned
Mark took up a position inside the door near Skree. “You can’t even hear the crowd,” he said with a laugh.
“What did I say?” Benjamin asked. Then he ducked his head beneath the faucet, drowning out any reply. Eyes closed, he let the water wash away his band, the music, the club, and the competition, it all ran down the drain. The only thing he couldn’t seem to shake were the eyes he saw burning behind his, dark eyes, swirling, alive. Suddenly his pants felt too tight, and he shifted from one foot to the other in an effort to relieve the budding ache in his crotch.
He heard a scuffle behind him. Before he could look up someone rammed into him, hard, knocking him against the wall. The spigot caught him in the back of the head and for a brief instant the darkness behind his closed eyes flared white. “What the fuck…” he started, flinging wet hair out of his face.
A heavy hand on his chest stopped him. Ty held him back, those eyes unreadable in the harsh bulbs overhead. “Stay right there,” he warned.
Past Ty, Benjamin could see Skree struggling with Nick in the doorway. The taller drummer had Skree in a bear hug, arms pinned at his sides, but Skree pummeled his fists into Nick’s midsection, bellowing in rage. Skree’s feet were planted wide between the wall and the open door, giving him some leverage for the fight. But Mark was still behind the door, pinned in place with the doorknob in his stomach. Dimly Benjamin felt a drop of water drizzle down his back. Where Ty’s hand rested on his chest, his skin felt itchy and hot. “What’s this all about?” he wanted to know.
“Same old shit,” Ty replied, his voice low. He was watching the water bead on Benjamin’s mouth and when Benjamin licked the droplets away, Ty’s own lips parted a bit in a faint sigh. Benjamin saw the struggle in those familiar eyes and wanted to laugh when Ty muttered, “Goddamn it. Look what you’re gonna make me do.”
“Like it’s all my fault,” Benjamin countered, but Ty wasn’t listening. His long legs strode for the door and, without a word, he shoved Skree and Nick into the hall. Freed, Mark started to sink to the floor, but Ty grabbed him by the collar and tossed him out after the other two. Then he shoved the door shut, using the rubber doorstop to wedge it closed. His jacket fell to the floor. He turned, pulling his shirt off over his head, and dropped it, as well. By the time he had crossed the room again, his belt was unbuckled, his jeans unzipped. Benjamin wrung the water from his hair and this time laughed out loud. “I thought we said not around our bands—”
“Fuck our bands,” Ty growled. Then his mouth was on Benjamin’s, hot and wet, his tongue licking between Benjamin’s lips possessively. Ty’s entire body pressed Benjamin back against the wall, his heat searing through the thin, wet T-shirt. Hands fumbled at Benjamin’s waist, glancing over the start of an erection, then steady fingers began to unbutton his jeans. “Finally,” Ty murmured. “Do you know how hard it is watching you onstage?”
Benjamin’s reply was lost in their kiss. He ran his hands up Ty’s chest, over nipples that hardened beneath his palms, over soft hair lying on smooth skin. He tangled his fingers in that hair, tugged on it to pull Ty closer. Between them denim chafed skin. Benjamin wrapped his arms around Ty’s shoulders as their kiss deepened and he slid out of his jeans when Ty pushed them down. Onstage another band began to play and the wall behind them vibrated with the beat. Benjamin held onto Ty, kissed his mouth, his tongue, his cheeks, and the bristle of hair along his chin. His hands tangled in long hair and pulled Ty’s head back to expose his throat. Benjamin licked the tender skin above his Adam’s apple. It tasted sharp and sweat.
He sat in Ty’s hands now. His underwear was down around his ankles with his jeans. Strong fingers worked at his buttocks, spreading them wide, pressing inside with a sweet pain. Ty held him up against the wall, his lips on Benjamin’s neck as he breathed in damp curls. Each movement he made rubbed Benjamin’s hard dick against his bare stomach. Ty started to kiss his way down, over the jut of Benjamin’s collarbone, over one nugget of a nipple still sheathed in cotton, down to where the T-shirt pulled up to expose pale skin lined with dark hairs. Benjamin kicked one leg free from his jeans and raised it onto the counter beside them to redistribute his weight. Ty licked the trail of hair on Benjamin’s stomach, following it down to the thatch at his groin where a protruding erection waited.
Benjamin’s hands were on the top of Ty’s head now, fisted in his hair. Ty closed his lips around the tip of Benjamin’s dick and drew him in, deep. He always took the full length. Benjamin bucked forward, his skin quivering where Ty’s mouth met the base of his cock. A thick forefinger tickled between his buttocks before finding its way into his ass. His muscles clamped around it as he raised up onto his toes, driving himself further into Ty’s mouth. Other fingers cupped his balls, kneaded them, rolled them around like dice in the palm. He pushed harder, tugged at Ty’s hair to hold his head in place while he fucked into the willing mouth. Expert lips and tongue worked him to a climax. Just before he came, the finger in his ass drove deeper, the mouth sucked harder, and the fingers tightened around his balls, forcing his orgasm.
Spent, Benjamin slid off the counter and onto the floor. Ty knelt down beside him, pants open, underwear pushed down below his balls, his own jism marking Benjamin’s jeans where they pooled between them. From far away came the sound of pounding—the music? Someone at the door? “Fuck it,” Benjamin sighed. He didn’t have the energy to talk above a whisper.
Tenderly Ty eased an arm around the back of Benjamin’s neck and pulled him close. “Come here,” he murmured, kissing at the sweat already drying on Benjamin’s brow. The musk of Benjamin’s scent was on his breath and when they kissed again, on the lips this time, the taste of himself took his breath away. The pounding grew louder—definitely someone at the door. Into Ty’s mouth, Benjamin breathed, “They probably think we’re killing each other.”
With a laugh, Ty teased, “Let them think what they want. I’m not through with you yet.”
THE END
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ABOUT J.M. SNYDER
A multi-published author of gay erotic/romantic fiction, J.M. Snyder began writing boyband slash before turning to self-publishing. She has worked with several different e-publishers, including Amber Allure Press, Aspen Mountain Press, eXcessica Publishing, and Torquere Press, and has short stories published in anthologies by Alyson Books, Aspen Mountain Press, Cleis Press, eXcessica Publishing, Lethe Press, and Ravenous Romance. For more information, including excerpts, free stories, and monthly contests, please visit jmsnyder.net.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
Founded in 2010, JMS Books LLC is owned and operated by author J.M. Snyder. We publish a variety of genres, including gay erotic romance, fantasy, young adult, poetry, and nonfiction. We are an invitation-only small press. Short stories and novellas are available as e-books and compiled into single-author print anthologies, while any story over 30k in length is available in both print and e-book formats. Visit us at jms-books.com for more information on our latest releases!
Snyder, J.M., Battle of the Bands
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