Dirty Rocker Read online

  Contents

  © Alice May Ball 2018

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  BLAZE I-III -31

  PIERCE excerpt

  Title

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  PIERCE

  Join my readers’ group

  © Alice May Ball, TzR Publishing, 2017

  Cover Design by Signs of Desire for TzR Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner.

  Any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, or to any actual events is purely coincidental.

  All the people and places are portrayed in this story are fictional. All characters are over the age of eighteen, and entirely imaginary.

  #

  Prologue

  Blaze. You’ve seen him. Those hooded, smoldering eyes with the shy, surprised droop of his heavy lids, the scar across his eyebrow. That smirk. His smashing, grinding riffs and his hooky choruses, you know them. Some days they power you on the way to work, some nights they make you sway.

  You’ve read about him. He’s really not the way that he comes off in the magazines and the gossip blogs. His image is only his armor, a protective shell. Inside, he’s really different. What he hides is another kind of sensitivity. And a deep hurt that he had to carry a long time.

  But I’m getting ahead of the story. I still can’t really believe it all happened, not to me. A quiet little teacher, – okay, maybe I’m not so little – in a quiet little school in a quiet little town.

  How did the most explosive rockstar in the world burn his way into my life and sweep me away?

  I’ll tell you, but be prepared. Some of it will shock you. Some parts will make you sad. And a lot of it, well, you will need some privacy and maybe be ready to get pretty hot and a bit squirmy. And very wet.

  Chapter One

  THE NEW TEACHING JOB was in a supposedly quiet little town of Lovage in Boon County, Oregon. At my interview, the principal said, “Think of it as a cross between ‘loving’ and ‘ravage.’” Dream on, principal Bones. For one thing, there’s zero ravaging on the curriculum and it’s not a staff-room duty either. And for the other thing, this place is more like a cross between a forgotten dried herb and a clump of weeds.

  Truth be told, that was why I chose Lovage in the first place. It was far enough away from everything I knew and not only in miles. This would be the place where I could leave everything behind. My fresh start. Turns out, Lovage is a kind of a Jekyll and Hyde town. Quiet, mild-mannered and professional by day. Something else at night.

  Still, I wasn’t here for nightlife. I came to hide myself away from all forms of entanglement. Since I arrived here, I found it easy to skip all of the messy fumbling and the embarrassing lies that men put you through. All the no-music dances. The words that don’t mean what they say and all of the things that men will do just to get their hard and dark-scented parts pressed up on your soft, fleshy parts.

  I had cheerfully chosen to settle exclusively and for the foreseeable future for the direct, no nonsense move on the chocolate ice-cream option.

  I kept myself all to myself and I stuck to my resolution. My relationships were all going to be three-way trysts with a Mr. Ben and his friend Jerry.

  Until the night that Blaze came to town. That was the downfall of my good intentions. Everybody’s good intentions scamper away like a whimpering pack of frightened puppies when Blaze struts into view.

  Chapter Two

  A MOTORCYCLE HAS A unique sound all of its own, a distinct voice, and a Harley more so than any other bike. Believe me. I'm not a girl who's mechanicaly-minded, I don't even know what a spark plug is, apart from what the name tells you it is. It doesn't take long being around a Harley Davidson though, you soon learn to hear its distinctive beat, the unique sound of its throat. You learn the rhythm, the pulse, the notes of the engine and the beat of the exhaust.

  It's a voice, like a man’s voice. You hear it, something deep inside you responds to it immediately. The same way that you hear your name across a bar or a party, you can hear a Harley that you know, even in a pack. The voice matches the owner somehow. If he's a big, heavily muscled, hard-ass guy with smoking hot, brown-eyed good looks, an explosive temper and a short fuse, just for instance, then that's how his bike sounds.

  Or, I don't know, perhaps you tune in with a finer sensitivity after the owner of the bike has tried to kill you.

  I knew that Blaze was trouble, everybody knew that. He was famous for it. The second he looked in my eye I felt it in the flesh. I can’t deny that was a big part of the attraction. But Im getting ahead of the story. He has that effect. Among others.

  Chapter Three

  A FEW OF US, all teachers, all of us good girls, well, reasonably good girls, were celebrating the end of the semester and the start of summer vacation. We were free for a few weeks, and we were overdue some Friday night, let your hair down, shout-out-loud fun.

  The school year, we all agreed, had not been as advertised when we applied from far away for our posts. All of our so-called teaching jobs involved about three percent actual teaching, eighty percent crowd control and the rest was mostly work the police should have been doing. Oh, apart from dealing with the parents who were, as often as not, more dangerous than the kids.

  Now that the year was finally done with, tail feathers were due for a shaking. Perky little Naomi, fit and feisty Amy, the hardbodied phys-ed teacher, chatty and outrageous Chrissie and Jayd, a couple of others, and luscious, cake-loving me. I was the youngest, and I was the one who always had to push those barriers just a little harder, test the boundaries, take a few extra risks. Always been that way. My daddy told me it would get me into trouble. But I remember he had on a sly grin when he said it.

  Back when I was in school, the girls all gave me a hard time for that, as well as for my weight. Most likely it was because my tits were way bigger than theirs, especially in the beginning. My big, curvy, womanly body always made me feel desirable, powerful and beautiful.

  The other girls, all into their fashion plate idols and rap-ho’s, they did everything they could to make me feel bad about myself.

  The boys appreciated my outstanding assets. They reddened and their voices thickened as their pants got tight and they became quite outstanding themselves. All of them tried to come up with ways and means for their cocks to wind up between my big, soft young breasts.

  That was OK with me, better than OK a lot of the time, but I got such crap from the other girls that I couldn’t stand it. Plus, somehow all the boys who wanted to get into dark corners with me, shouted how I was beautiful or they loved me, still seemed to melt away pretty fast afterward. None of that excitement and thrill was leading me into any
long-term relationships. Naively perhaps, I thought, Well who needs it?

  My body obviously gave gobs of pleasure to the boys, but not one of them ever never had the stamina or the skills to satisfy me. I can give a man the time of his life. I can do it over a few hours, or I can do it in about ten minutes.

  Still always left me wanting a tub of chocolate ice-cream. How I kept my head straight enough to keep my virginity, I’ll never know. Like one smart-mouthed boy said, “It’s not like you’re even using it for anything.”

  Chapter Four

  SHOUTING TO BE HEARD over the music in the downtown club, I said,

  "Let's do shots."

  Carmel said,

  "I don't know, Luce, it's getting kind of late, don't you think?"

  I could tell she would go either way. She was going to be the one who would say later on, 'well, I said we shouldn't have. Remember I said that?'

  Monique, Jayd and Hayley shouted they were up for it, no hesitation. So shots it was.

  I’m thinking about that song from the Clash. My daddy was never a bank robber, and you wouldn’t say he never hurt nobody, but something about the song always called to me.

  It was playing in the club when the shots arrived at our table. The same time as Blaze appeared out of nowhere.

  Larger than life, the real deal, an actual rockstar. When he moved he was head and shoulders above the crowd. He had that sinuous, cat-like prowl. His eyes swept the room like beacons. Like a hunter’s eyes. As though he tasted whatever they saw.

  Soft black leather stretched over his powerful thighs and his snaking hips. Across the front of those hips, under the tight, shining leather, just below a huge sliver buckle, was a bulge like he had the thick half of a baseball bat down there.

  All of the girls sitting on barstools, as he walked by, their legs all parted and fell wider. His eyes landed on mine and he stopped.

  My breath stuck in my throat like it was too big to swallow but I was’t going to let him see that. My chin lifted. He held my eyes with his like a challenge and I tried to distract myself, thinking of a scoop of Cherry Garcia. It didn’t help.

  His eyes scanned my body like forensic lasers. Swept over me, mapping every curve. Assessing weight. Detecting heat. He looked down to the now swelling globes of my big, creamy breasts and I jolted inside as I saw the tip of his tongue.

  He cut through the crowd like it was an empty room and steered right to our table. All the girls’ eyes and thighs just fell open at the sight of a real, live 24-carat rock megastar. His eyes were still on mine. Shivers ran down my spine and moist quivers started in my pants. He looked at the stick of shots then straight at me.

  He said, “We’ll do these. You do half and I’ll do the rest.” His watery, grey eyes fixed on mine. He was talking about the shots. But he was saying something else at the same time. That thick, golden voice, like hot, sweet molasses.

  Slow and deliberate, deep and round. Whatever he said he made it sound like a melody. Jammed a rhythm under it. He said,

  “Just you and me.” Then, to the others,

  “I’ll buy some more for you little girls.”

  He’s good at that. He’s good at taking control as though it belonged to him. He’s good at paying for things, too. Blaze Paskall, big rock star, everybody knows who he is. Everybody wants to please him, do what he wants.

  He’s even bigger in the flesh than he looks on his outrageous videos. He’s better looking, too. A sinuous hunk of leather, denim, tattoos and sweat with a flame-red mane. Blaze Paskall, the old-school, hard-living, hotel-trashing throwback.

  Even then, in that first moment, I saw something else. Something inside him that was not at all like the public image. Larger than life, the obscenely sexy public image hunkered over our table and gripped me from the inside with his smoldering, skewering eyes. And I knew that the man inside was totally at odds with all of that.

  I’ve thought about that evening a lot. Naturally, given all that happened afterward. That moment is the part that I always come back to. How it was that I knew. The conclusion I always land on is that I was in Lovage to hide away myself.

  Deep down inside, unconsciously, one fugitive recognized another.

  But, that image wasn’t the picture that anyone has of Blaze Paskall. He was notorious for riffs that hooked you by the hip and pulsed along the insides of your thighs. He sang obscene poetry and he famously left a trail of havoc and destruction that Blaze and Organ Grinders left in bars and hotel pools in their chaotic wake.

  When he struts, everyone stands back.

  Organ Grinders were the hell-raising, too-hot-to-handle band, banned from hotels, airlines, even from some towns. Their songs and albums were the anthems of anger and the downloads de riguer that year. Their incendiary songs were written and sung by Blaze himself and his dueling axe partner, Chainsaw Babbage. Lovelace Lies Bleeding was that summers song you heard everywhere.

  Their sneering chorus hook, Get that monkey OUTA HERE! was the reaction of every angry teen that summer in every unwelcome situation. Wherever an adolescent was interfaced with authority, sooner or later you’d hear that refrain.

  As teachers, all of us heard it under nearly every surly breath and even out loud in moments of high schoolroom drama. It was a loud, verbal middle-finger. A phrase and a refrain that didn’t say anything but left you in no doubt at all of exactly what it meant.

  Guys cheer and nod, sometimes punch the air at the sight of him. Girls juice in their jeans. I certainly did. I was, right then.

  I was determined that I wasn’t going to let it show, though. I said,

  “Yeah?” So. Shots.

  I put salt on my hand, watched him as I licked it off, slowly. He did the same. His huge tongue flicked out of his thick, dark lips, moistened them first, all around the inside of his grin, grazed the sharp edges of his gleaming teeth.

  We looked in each other’s eyes as we sucked our slices of lemon, eyes bolted onto each other, and an electricity charged from my chest down to my gut, then dropped below. We raised the shot glasses and he looked in my eyes. I don’t know why, I said, “Heroes, all!” as a toast.

  He said, “Heroes all!”

  Then we knocked back the shots. Then again. Four shots each, one right after the other. I wiped my mouth with my forearm and he grinned.

  The way that his chest moved under the shirt as he spoke, a pulse of raw lust bolted through me. He took my hand, turned it over and said,

  “What do we see in your future?”

  My stomach felt like it dropped about three stories. He leered as his fingers brushed gently up the inside of my forearm. My heart thumped. I pulled to take my hand back, but he held it. Showing me that he had the power, as well as the strength. More shots, and the girls, the bar, the music, everything faded until it become nothing more than our backdrop.

  In focus when it was funny or exciting, otherwise the world was all a blurry wash of color and sound. There was only Blaze. And me. A picture slewed across my mind of his face between my breasts and that massive cock, nudging its way into my wet puss, probing the hot lips apart, pushing its way in through the tingling folds. He’d said something, but I had to ask him to repeat it.

  Then I remember we were in the alley behind the bar, red and blue neon flickering on the damp brick wall, cigarette smoke and the musky smell of him through leather. My teeth chewed the inside of my mouth to check this was real. His hot breath on my neck confirmed it.

  That and the hot thing in his pants. The thing that felt like it could burn its way through both of our clothes. He put his hand on my throat, thumb up to my chin. My head felt tiny in his hand. He looked at me and I was so turned on, my thighs were tingling so hard, I could hardly stop my knees from shaking.

  Chapter Five

  I COVERED MY NERVES with bravado. I reached up and kissed him. Deep, hard and long. The moment his breath reached into my mouth, I felt as though the law of gravity was suspended. I put it down to the shots.

  His ey
es locked deep into mine as he slid my tee-shirt up to my shoulders. I gasped as he slipped his hand into the cup of my strapless bra.