#Kissing (Rock and Romance #1) Read Online Free
Author: Ellie Brixton
quiet. People all around me cheer, calling out to the band, hands already raised in the air, yearning for that thing only music provides.
The notes ring out and all at once, our thoughts drown, worries hang on nooses made of nylon strings, and drumsticks impale the haunting doubts of insecurity.
The opening of the song disappears into a cheer. The Halos continue, carrying us, in our bouncing, bopping, singing-along madness straight up to heaven where it doesn’t matter where we came from or where we're going or if we purposely failed our finals, didn't show up at our own graduation party, and left in a wake disappointment and the ruins of a perfectly orchestrated life.
#FuckPerfection
Now this is my life.
When Niko howls into the microphone, "Show us your tits." I oblige. And I dance. I throw myself into the foot stomping, chaotic center of the action. Elbows jab my sides, there's skin contact, damp hair in my face, fists pumping the air, and all our voices shouting the words as though our lives depend on it.
When the chorus comes around again with the shout, "Show us your tits," as one, all the girls lift their shirts, revealing breasts in all shapes and sizes. Even a few guys join the show. We flash the band, we flash the crowd, and we flash each other.
My breasts aren't particularly huge, but they're real, shapely, perky, and according to the guy standing next to me, whistle and ogle-worthy.
This is why Niko doesn't like when I join the crowd. This is why I do. It's a rush. A thrill and reminds me I'm still alive even if Bubbie isn't.
I gesture for him to give me a boost and he's all too happy to grope me as he does. I'm all too happy to kick off a little harder than I should when I climb onto the stage.
Audience participation grants guaranteed access backstage after the show; the diehards and girlfriends of the diehards know this. Niko tolerates it. Jill hates it. Slade encourages it.
I lift my shirt along with my middle finger and flip everyone off, a smile on my lips, and a laugh in my throat. Then I throw myself into the crowd, diving backwards, and sailing over heads as hands pass me away from the stage. It's skin on skin, humming in my bones, and I whoop.
I dance and thrash around, forgetting almost every ache and regret. I imagine the only thing better than this is actually being on the stage playing the music. Though my fingers haven't touched key or string in years.
Another secret Niko doesn't know about me is that when he's working through a particularly difficult riff, I'm already on the bridge. My mother not only raised a genius, but a music prodigy, though the credit for the aptitude rests solely with Bubbie, courtesy of her old piano.
Chapter 6
Backstage after the show, instead of going straight to the green room, I follow the red glow of an exit sign. The metal door creaks open and the bitter wind freezes the sweat on my face. I close my eyes against the light of the cars and cabs below, against the glow of whatever city this is, and breathe deep, preparing myself for the party. And the party after that.
Three beers and two shots later, we're at an exclusive club in some town, and I'm lucky I remember my name. Or Kat's.
She appears wearing an impossible vinyl dress and pulls me onto the dancefloor. The trance-inducing song isn't my style, but it's the kind that insists our movements are sexy. Niko watches from the table where he ingests various cocktails and concoctions, dreaming up what we're going to do together later.
Kat, in her booty and boob-baring outfit, oozes pure porn star sex. As we grind together, her artificially buoyant boobs squeak against the fabric of her dress. I toss my head back and laugh. She takes this as an invitation to lick my neck, running a tingle through me.
When the song ends, I return to Niko. He pulls me onto his lap.
"That was fucking hot." His eyes, and nearly every other male's, follow Kat who leads a new dance partner onto the floor.
"That was
The notes ring out and all at once, our thoughts drown, worries hang on nooses made of nylon strings, and drumsticks impale the haunting doubts of insecurity.
The opening of the song disappears into a cheer. The Halos continue, carrying us, in our bouncing, bopping, singing-along madness straight up to heaven where it doesn’t matter where we came from or where we're going or if we purposely failed our finals, didn't show up at our own graduation party, and left in a wake disappointment and the ruins of a perfectly orchestrated life.
#FuckPerfection
Now this is my life.
When Niko howls into the microphone, "Show us your tits." I oblige. And I dance. I throw myself into the foot stomping, chaotic center of the action. Elbows jab my sides, there's skin contact, damp hair in my face, fists pumping the air, and all our voices shouting the words as though our lives depend on it.
When the chorus comes around again with the shout, "Show us your tits," as one, all the girls lift their shirts, revealing breasts in all shapes and sizes. Even a few guys join the show. We flash the band, we flash the crowd, and we flash each other.
My breasts aren't particularly huge, but they're real, shapely, perky, and according to the guy standing next to me, whistle and ogle-worthy.
This is why Niko doesn't like when I join the crowd. This is why I do. It's a rush. A thrill and reminds me I'm still alive even if Bubbie isn't.
I gesture for him to give me a boost and he's all too happy to grope me as he does. I'm all too happy to kick off a little harder than I should when I climb onto the stage.
Audience participation grants guaranteed access backstage after the show; the diehards and girlfriends of the diehards know this. Niko tolerates it. Jill hates it. Slade encourages it.
I lift my shirt along with my middle finger and flip everyone off, a smile on my lips, and a laugh in my throat. Then I throw myself into the crowd, diving backwards, and sailing over heads as hands pass me away from the stage. It's skin on skin, humming in my bones, and I whoop.
I dance and thrash around, forgetting almost every ache and regret. I imagine the only thing better than this is actually being on the stage playing the music. Though my fingers haven't touched key or string in years.
Another secret Niko doesn't know about me is that when he's working through a particularly difficult riff, I'm already on the bridge. My mother not only raised a genius, but a music prodigy, though the credit for the aptitude rests solely with Bubbie, courtesy of her old piano.
Chapter 6
Backstage after the show, instead of going straight to the green room, I follow the red glow of an exit sign. The metal door creaks open and the bitter wind freezes the sweat on my face. I close my eyes against the light of the cars and cabs below, against the glow of whatever city this is, and breathe deep, preparing myself for the party. And the party after that.
Three beers and two shots later, we're at an exclusive club in some town, and I'm lucky I remember my name. Or Kat's.
She appears wearing an impossible vinyl dress and pulls me onto the dancefloor. The trance-inducing song isn't my style, but it's the kind that insists our movements are sexy. Niko watches from the table where he ingests various cocktails and concoctions, dreaming up what we're going to do together later.
Kat, in her booty and boob-baring outfit, oozes pure porn star sex. As we grind together, her artificially buoyant boobs squeak against the fabric of her dress. I toss my head back and laugh. She takes this as an invitation to lick my neck, running a tingle through me.
When the song ends, I return to Niko. He pulls me onto his lap.
"That was fucking hot." His eyes, and nearly every other male's, follow Kat who leads a new dance partner onto the floor.
"That was
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