Big Girls Just Want to Have Fun Read online

  Big Girls Just Want to Have Fun

  by Aurora Dupree

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright 2012 Aurora Dupree

  ***

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters and incidents are either

  the product of the author's imagination or are used in a fictitious manner.

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

  Check out these other stories in the Billionaire's Beck and Call series!

  At the Billionaire's Beck and Call

  Breeding my Billionaire Boss

  Having the Billionaire's Baby

  Belonging to the Billionaire (Billionaire's Beck and Call Bundle)

  Menage with the Billionaire

  I don't usually meet many guys in bars.

  It isn't that I'm self conscious. I'm not. Really. I have no problem talking in front of people, eating in front of people, or pretty much just being myself when the occasion calls for it.

  But bars? Never really saw the appeal. Sure, it was fun to go out dancing once in a while, and it was always amusing to see how much more guys appreciated some 'junk in the trunk' when they were out shaking a move on the dance floor. But most of the time I don't approach strangers, and they don't approach me. Maybe the bars I hang out in just don't attract that sort of clientele, I don't know. Whatever the case, I'd rather eat some ice cream and watch Hoarders on TV while laughing to myself than go out drinking.

  Usually.

  Tonight was different somehow. I could feel it. I had the itch to get out of my apartment, make my way downtown. I'm not exactly sure why. Maybe it was a full moon, or I'd had too much coffee this morning. No one was urging me, either. My friends were all out of town, and my co-workers were all busy. So I headed out by myself. It was a bold move for me. But there was something in the air, and it was the kind of night where you just had the feeling something good was going to happen.

  Anyway, I'm rambling. As it happened, I ended up at this bar I never in a million years thought I would end up at. It was a dank, grimy dive, a rock n' roll bar called Ride the Lightning. Now I like rock n' roll as much as the next gal, but in that place, I felt decidedly unhip with my thigh-length skirt and modest, if low cut, blouse. There were more tight pants, leather jackets, tattoos, and piercings than I had ever seen in one place before.

  I'm not sure why I decided to go in. I don't believe in fate, but something must have drawn me to a place that was so far out of my element. So as I sat at the bar and ordered a glass of white wine from the bartender with a Mohawk and more metal in his face than a dentist's office, I certainly felt a little out of place. The jukebox was blaring a punk song, the pool table balls were clicking and clacking against each other, and I was drumming my feet, sipping my wine and wondering just what the hell I was doing there.

  They say there are a few moments that change your life forever, when you know that the future will be irrevocably changed. I didn't realize it at the time, but when Clyde Strummer sat down next to me at Ride the Lightning, and ordered three shots of whiskey, things would never be the same.

  I heard him talking to the bartender like they were old pals, but I didn't turn around immediately. Whoever it was was being loud and obnoxious, talking over the high decibels of the music with a laid back drawl.

  “Yeah, three whiskeys, it's just that time of the night. Two for myself, and one for the lady here.”

  I still continued to sip on my wine, thinking he was talking about someone else. I didn't realize he meant me until he slammed a shot down in front of me and pointed at it, raising his eyebrows.

  That's when I got my first good look at him. He was handsome all right, with long black hair, prominent biceps tattooed to oblivion, several necklaces swinging above a ripped Guns N Roses T-shirt. But I was taken aback, and a little peeved.

  “What makes you think I want a shot?” I asked. “I don't even like whiskey.”

  He shrugged.

  “Doesn't matter to me.” He downed the first of his own shots, knocking it back like it was water. “You just looked so lonely over there with your wine, I figured I'd give you a pick-me-up.”

  The song on the jukebox changed over to another rollicking number.

  “Oh man, I love this one,” he said, banging his hands against the bar in rhythm with the song. He turned back to me, smiling. “I love a girl with curves, too, if I may be so bold.”

  “Wow,” I said, not sure if I should be offended or take that as a compliment. “You just say whatever it is that's on your mind, don't you?”

  He put his hands up.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “All right,” I said, with a sigh. “Let's do it.” I held up the shot glass of whiskey, and clinked it against his. My head tilted back, and the brown liquid went washing down my throat. I gagged a little, nearly spitting out the harsh well alcohol. It finally made its way down to my belly, where it gave me a nice warm burn.

  “Not used to the hard stuff, are you?” he said.

  “No, I'm not,” I admitted. “That's why I'm here drinking wine.”

  He extended his hand. “Clyde Strummer.”

  “Debbie Beaumont. Nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise. All right, Debbie, let's be straight. What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this? You look like a fish out of water.”

  I shrugged.

  “I'm asking myself the same question.”

  “I see, I see. You waiting for someone? A punk rock boyfriend, perhaps?”

  I shook my head.

  “Nope. It's just me. What you see is what you get.”

  “Mmm hmm.” Clyde brushed his dark hair out of his face. “Well if you're still bored in a couple hours, you should come check out my band. We're playing across the street.”

  It took me a moment to process that info.

  “Wait a second,” I said. “You're playing at the Colosseum? That place must hold ten thousand people!”

  He shrugged.

  “Yeah, just about. My band is called Unholy Night.”

  I shook my head sheepishly.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I've never heard of you guys.”

  “That's all right.” He handed her a laminated ticket. “This will get you full access, including backstage if you want to come hang out after the show. No pressure. But I'd hate to see you sitting here by your lonesome all night. Just as a concerned citizen.” He grinned.

  I stared at the ticket in my hand, wondering. It didn't seem like my kind of music, but Clyde was certainly good-looking, and kind of charming if I had to admit it to myself.

  “Could be fun,” I said, not wanting to tip my hand completely, just yet. “Maybe I'll see you there.”

  “Cool. I gotta run over there for soundcheck. Hopefully I'll catch up with you later.”

  Clyde exchanged a handshake with the bartender, and then he was gone, off into the night to perform his soundcheck or whatever he had called it. I lingered for a little while longer, finishing off my wine. The whiskey hadn't done my throat or stomach any favors, but I was feeling a little buzzed, and in a good mood generally. I decided to go for a stroll, and debate going to see Unholy Night. I headed out around the block, again waiting to see where the night would take me. It was a glorious, warm summer's evening, and couples were out in full force, walking hand in hand along the streets and avenues. My path eventually led me to outside the Colosseum, where a line of people was already stretching around the block.

  I could hear teenagers yelling, carousing, having fun with their friends.

  “Woo hoo! Unholy Night!”

  “I can't wait for this show!”


  “Clyde is so hot! This is going to be the best night of my life.”

  I really couldn't believe how many fans they had, and the enthusiasm for the band. I had assumed Clyde was just in some local group, playing at another grungy dive bar, with maybe ten people who would show up. But this was something else. It was like an event, a spectacle. I made my way to the back of the line, still feeling out of place in my modest clothing, with my lack of piercings or tattoos, or band shirts with the Unholy Night logo emblazoned on them, which appeared to be a cross covered in flowers.

  I stood there for a few minutes, before I realized that my ticket might allow me to jump the line. Shaking my head, I headed up towards the front.

  “Jeez Debbie, get it together,” I said to myself. “You get handed an all-access pass, and you still wait at the back of the line like a chump?”

  I hoped nobody saw me talking to myself. The bouncer at the front of the line was letting people in, very slowly, a few at a time. He saw me approaching, and shook his head sternly.

  “Back of the line, miss.”

  “Um, I have a backstage pass.” I held the laminated ticket up. He looked at it, and nodded.

  “Oh, I'm very sorry. Right this way.”

  He removed the rope and ushered her through. I joined other fans heading down a long, narrow tunnel, where they were met by some ushers.

  “Your seat is in the first two rows,” the usher said, examining my ticket. “Anywhere you like.”

  I continued forward, and soon the large, curved amphitheater of the Colosseum stretched out before me. The place was really huge. It definitely held ten thousand people, easy. Fans were starting to trickle in more and more now, and the place was getting crowded. I found a seat in the first row, next to bunches of rabid Unholy Night fans decked out in their merchandise. Even though I had absolutely no idea what to expect, I was kind of excited. There was an electric atmosphere in the place that was contagious, and soon I found myself tapping my feet and clapping along with the rest of the audience, shouting “We want Unholy Night! We want Unholy Night!”

  After what seemed like an eternity, the lights finally dimmed and an uproarious cheer rang out through the crowd. The guitar player, bassist, and drummer all came out onto the stage to rapturous applause, holstering their instruments. They were all handsome dudes, with long hair, and they looked like they had attained a level of coolness which I doubted I could ever achieve. Last out onto the stage was Clyde, who received the most applause of all. He was wearing the same getup from the dive bar, and he was so close that I felt like I could reach up and touch him. He approached the microphone with a wide smile on his face. He raised his hands in the air and shouted “How's everyone doing tonight? Are you ready to rock?”

  I found myself screaming in affirmation along with everyone else. Unholy Night launched into their first song, with frantic guitars and a blisteringly fast bass line. Clyde sang in a deep, low baritone, and his voice was unbelievable. Although I didn't know any of the songs, after the first ten minutes I was singing along with everybody else, eager for more. Clyde was a natural showman on the stage, running all over the place, pointing to the audience, shaking around with the rest of his band mates. The songs kept coming, harder and faster, and I couldn't believe how good they sounded, or why I'd never heard of them before. Looking at Clyde, it was as if he was born to be on the stage, to play to a large group of people. By the time the show ended, two hours and several encores later, everyone was a sweaty mess, but somehow I was still hungry for more. It was without a doubt the best show of my entire life, and that's saying something.

  I stood around while the mass of exhausted, happy fans swarmed around me. I turned to leave with them, before I remembered that I had backstage passes. Grinning, I headed over to the bouncer who was guarding access to the rear. He let me in without a fuss, and I was ushered down a long corridor to a small lounge room where Unholy Night was relaxing.

  The band was seated on plush leather couches, looking tired but happy. There were maybe twenty people in the room, all diehard fans aside from me. The band was taking pictures, signing autographs, chatting with their fans. I stood in the corner, waiting for Clyde to notice me. Finally he did, his eyes widening in delight, and he came strolling over in my direction with a sly grin plastered on his face.

  “Debbie,” he said. “You made it. I was wondering if you were gonna show.”

  “How could I miss it?” I asked. “That was the show of a lifetime. I can't believe I'd never heard of you guys before.”

  “Well thank you, thank you very much,” he said, doing a little exaggerated bow. “Come on, let me introduce you to the rest of the band.”

  He led me over to the other members of Unholy Night.

  “This is Cedric, our guitarist. He looks stern, but really he's a big teddy bear.”

  Cedric was very tall and skinny, with long blonde hair and a concerned Nordic expression. He shook my hand, smiling slightly.

  “Freddie, our bassist. The intellect in the group.”

  Freddie had dark rimmed glasses, and a black curly Afro. He embraced me in a big bear hug.

  “You like the show?” he asked.

  “It was great,” I said honestly. “One of the best I've ever seen.”

  “And finally, Moe, our drummer. Friendliest guy you'll ever meet.”

  “Debbie,” I said, shaking his hand. He was a bulky dude, with serious muscles. He grinned and clutched my hand in his massive paws.

  “An honor and a privilege,” he said. “Good to meet you.”

  “Whew,” Clyde said, rolling up the sleeves of his ripped t-shirt. “That was an exhausting show. But I think it went pretty well.”

  “For sure,” I agreed. “I was impressed, anyway.”

  The crowd of fans was getting more raucous, surrounding the band, talking loudly. I could see Clyde dealing with it with the poise of a professional, but it was clear he was getting a little flustered.

  “Man, it's always a crazy scene after the show,” he said. “You want to get out of here for a little while? Maybe go and check out the tour bus? It's pretty dope, I can tell you that much.”

  I considered it. It was strange getting all this attention from a cool rock star like Clyde, and I definitely felt special. But did I really want to go and hang out on his tour bus, alone with him?

  I decided I really did. You only live once, right?

  “Okay,” I said. “But just for a little bit.”

  “Oh, you got a hot date tonight?”

  “No,” I said, giving him a smirk. “But maybe me and my curves have other things to do.”

  “I see how it is,” Clyde said. “Come on, you'll like it, I promise.”

  Before I knew what was happening, Clyde had grabbed my hand, and was leading me down a long tunnel. I guessed we were headed out of the arena, through the underground. There were roadies and staff hanging all around through the tunnels, and they all smiled and waved when Clyde walked past.

  “Hey man, great set!”

  “Unholy Night slays!”

  “You guys killed it tonight.”

  Clyde bore all of it with that same wry grin, giving them a hand wave, stopping briefly to shake some hands and slap some high fives.

  “Doesn't it get old?” I asked, as he continued whisking me down the tunnel, barely fast enough for me to catch my breath.

  “Nope,” he replied honestly. “Never does.”

  Finally we made it outside. I looked up at the night sky, a million stars shining down on me. We were behind the arena, where a row of cars and limousines were lined up next to the curb. There was a loading dock on the side where roadies were tirelessly lugging band equipment out of the space. I pointed to a large tour bus, painted in Gothic black and red colors, emblazoned with a giant, fire-breathing dragon.

  “I'm assuming that's your bus?”

  “Sure is. You like the paint job?”

  “It's a little tacky.”

  “Tacky is what I
do, babe.”

  Clyde fished out a set of keys from his pocket and swung open the doors to the bus. He jumped up the steps, grabbing my hand and hoisting me up behind him. I took in the surroundings. It was a luxurious ride, that was for sure. There was a large couch where the seats would normally be, and in the back I could see a bunch of beds arranged in a bunk style. There was a bar and a television, and what looked like a miniature pool table in the middle of the space. The whole thing was outfitted with chic shag carpet, and mood lighting. It was a rock star bus for sure.

  “Wow,” I said, running my hand over the plush carpet. “This is pretty rock star for sure.”

  “When we can't fly, it's the next best thing,” Clyde said, shrugging. “Would you like a drink?”

  “No thanks, I'm good for right now.”

  “Suit yourself.” Clyde moved over to the bar, pouring some whiskey from a tumbler into a glass. He took a large swig and set it down. Then he went over to the couch, hopping onto it, shoes and all. He patted the seat next to him.

  “Come sit next to me,” he said.

  I hesitated, unsure.

  “Don't worry,” he said. “I'm not going to bite. That is, unless that's what you're into.”

  “I know that!” I said, a little irritated. I walked over and sat next to him, arms crossed. His arm naturally draped around my shoulder, and I had to admit I didn't mind it one bit. I turned to look at him—his tall frame, long dark hair, multifarious tattoos. I still couldn't really believe I was sitting on a tour bus with him, and that his band was apparently so popular. It was like some kind of strange dream.

  “So...” Clyde said.

  “So,” I said, giggling a little bit.

  “You having a good time tonight?”

  “I am, actually.”

  “Good.” He leaned forward and kissed me, strong on the mouth. I could taste the whiskey on his breath, but I didn't mind. I smiled and put my arms around him, and we continued to make out. His hands trailed down to my breasts, and I didn't protest as he squeezed and massaged them through my shirt. Returning the favor, my own hand crept down to his crotch, where the bulge in his pants was already beginning to grow. I moved my hand over his stiffening cock, listening to his soft moans as I rubbed him through his pants. But I didn't stay that way for long. Barely even realizing what I was doing, I unbuttoned his fly and reached down to grab his manhood, skin on skin. I was impressed by his size. I guess it is true what they say about rock stars. He certainly had the right equipment, anyway.