Title: A Different Kind of Rock Star
Penname and FFn link:
Title of Song Used for the Serenade and Artist: You Are My Sunshine
Word Count: 4908
Disclaimer: I don't own Twilight, and I certainly don't own the band that is being spoofed. You know who I'm talking about.
Summary: Bored and jaded accountant Bella Swan gets more than she bargained for when she meets mysterious "musician" Edward Cullen. Is he really the rock-god she imagines, or is his job a bit more colorful than that? Laughs and lemons. o/s
A Different Kind of Rock Star
The bar scene lost its sparkle after I turned 24 or so. Before then, it was a bunch of people who just turned 21 out celebrating and getting their legal swerve on. It was fun back then. We girls had as much fun primping as we did actually drinking, and guys were hot and funny and easy to take home. I knew all the songs the cover-bands played, and I could toss back the brewskis like water. I could hang with the best of 'em.
Now that I'm 27, the only time I go to bars is when one of my girlfriends is having her stupid-ass bachelorette. She gets dressed up like a fucking moron, complete with penis-necklaces and a gaudy veil, and I pretend I care that it's her last "night out" as a single woman. Oh please, she hasn't gone out—I mean really gone out—since she met the guy. Who are we kidding, people?
Tonight, it's Lauren's bachelorette, and I'm miserable. I don't even know what to wear anymore. Last time I checked, leggings were for ballerinas and toddlers, but all of a sudden I feel completely out of the fashion loop in my boot-cut jeans and tank top.
"I have something more dressy in my car," Jessica slurred, reaching past me to tip the greasy-looking bartender with the Jersey-blowout hair.
I held up my hands. "I'm all set," I said, paying close attention to the label on my beer bottle. I just wanted her to go away.
"I get it," she continued, half-slobbernockered and ready to boot on my sandals, "you like to be comfortable when you drink. Good for you." She nodded, pretending to commiserate with me.
I bit my lip with embarrassment, and tried to bond with another member of this absurd bridal party. Lauren was grinding with two Marines she found while doing her scavenger hunt. Apparently, Jessica thought it would be a great idea to have Lauren "do dares" with random men in different categories all night. Take a picture with a hot cop. Have a bartender do a body shot off you. Find a man in uniform and hump his leg.
"Having fun?" Angela asked, sitting down next to me politely.
My shoulders sagged with relief. Angela was the only sane person here. Unfortunately, she was busy texting her boyfriend Ben all night. I needed her to rescue me from this horrorshow, but she was too preoccupied with her iPhone apps and playing online Scrabble with "Benny-boo", whom she missed terribly. "We haven't missed a pizza Friday in three years," she pouted when the night began.
"Fun?" I replied sourly. "The time of my life," I continued drily, nursing my pumpkin beer.
She rubbed my shoulders and whispered in my ear. "There's a guy looking at you." I eyeballed her skeptically, knowing that Angela wasn't the type to toy with me about finding a man.
You see, about a year ago I thought I had found Mr. Right. No, really, his name was James Right. But he was wrong—oh so wrong—on many levels. Like, ponytail wrong.
"Is he worth turning around for?" I asked, frowning. I had been pulling my tank down all night because my new jeans sat too low on my bum. Every time I twisted, I'd show some cheek or crack, and I just wasn't interested in flashing anyone right now.
"Aside from the entire pack of cougars surrounding him, he's quite the sight," she explained, eyebrows raised dramatically.
Angela found him attractive? But she only had eyes for Benny-boo-bear-face. This could be interesting. "Why would he be staring at me when he has botoxed beauties surrounding him?" I asked. Who can compete with cougars? They were a sure bet for free drinks and free sex, and their boobs never sagged because they were held afloat with silicone.
"He's ogling you, Bella," she said, and went back to text Ben something obviously very important and affectionate.
I yanked my tank down past the pockets of my jeans, and turned slowly—carefully—towards this allegedly handsome man.
Oh fuck me sideways.
No really—this guy could fuck me any which way from Sunday, and I wouldn't care. Even "that way"—not that I've tried that.
Gorgeous was a word you used for how Giselle Bundchen looked after she had Tom Brady's beautiful baby and then wore a bikini the next weekend. Handsome was a word you used for distinguished gentlemen, or Bea Arthur.
This guy? This guy was a work of art. Not a weird abstract thing that you think is an eyeball but is really a boob, or a statue of what was once considered a hot chick but you think she looks like an effeminate boy from Glee. This man was Michaelangelo's David without the foofy hair and pubes. He was perfection. Green eyes, messy bronze hair, and features so manly and sharp you could cut glass with his jawline.
He smiled at me, and waved over to the bartender.
My head immediately snapped down. I couldn't possibly look him in the eye again after ogling him. I finished my beer and peeled off the label, idly.
"This is from the gentleman sitting in the corner seat," the bartender said, handing me a jello shot. So he was a gentleman, eh? Maybe I could use the word handsome.
Wait…Fuckhotface bought me a jello shot? Did he think I was eighteen or something?
I turned to thank him, and he was staring again, smiling. He gestured for me to drink it and come over.
Ok, time to be sexy. I imagined myself popping the shot into my mouth, and let it slide seductively down my throat as I made an O face.
Instead, half of it came out at once, I choked it down, and the other half dislodged from the bottom as I was closing my mouth and bounced off my chin and down my top. I yelped and reached down my tank, wiggling around to get the rest of the jello out.
He was laughing. I was dying. I finished fishing the wiggly fucker out of my shirt and buried my head in my hands. Luckily, all the other girls from the party were on the dance floor pretending the song they were listening to was written about them. Honey—Usher has never met you and if he did, OMG would stand for "Oh Man, Gross."
"I thought it would be more fun than a martini," said a smooth voice next to me.
I looked up, and the beautiful green-eyed man was standing next to me. "Sorry about the jello shot," he said apologetically. "I was trying to be hip."
I laughed. "First step towards being hip is not saying the word hip," I explained. Shit, I just insulted him. He groaned and took a sip from his Sam Adams.
"I didn't mean it like that. Things always come out wrong with me," I explained, stammering.
He smiled broadly. "Like the jello shot?"
Now it was my turn to groan. "Yep."
He held out his hand and introduced himself. "Edward," he said softly.
I shook his hand and thought it felt like he had been marinating it in butter. It was so soft and smooth, I nearly pulled my hand away. My hand was cold and clammy from holding my beer, and my fingernails were bitten nearly to the crick. Nothing compared to his smooth butter piano fingers.
"Bella," I said, gulping loudly.
He smiled, and I realized he must have used that hand-butter everywhere, because his skin was freaking gorgeous. Like marble, only not blue and vein-y. Great, now I'm thinking about his cock.
"So, what do you do, Edward?" I asked, trying to make conversation that would keep me from thinking about butter or penises.
His once open-smile tightened a bit and he answered tersely, "Musician."
Who gets nervous talking about being a musician? Musicians were badass! Musicians said "Fuck conformity, I'm going to make a living through talent or chance or good looks!"
"That's cool," I said honestly. "What kind of music do you play? Are you in a band?"
He took a long pull from his drink and just answered, "I'm on tour right now. What do you do?"
On tour? Shit, those cougars must be groupies! What the hell do cougars listen to anyway? By the looks of him—the unkempt deliciousness and all—he must be a rock god.
"Ahh, I'm an accountant," I said, shrugging. It was true; I was just a number-cruncher.
"Funnnn," he said, laughing. Yeah, yuk it up. It's just my life.
I pointed my finger at him accusingly, "Super fun, especially when flaky musicians like you come into my office and convince me that I should write-off fifteen thousand dollars in guitars."
He laughed in response, clinking drinks with me as if to say, "hell yeah."
Just then, a wild mountain-cat decided to finally approach her prey.
"Oh my god," she exclaimed, putting her hand on his shoulder, "Are you EDWARD? From The—"
Edward cut her off. "Yes, I am," he said smoothly, yet face still nervous. "Autograph?" he asked as she thrust a piece of paper towards his face.
She bounced up and down and clapped like a five-year-old. "Thank you!" she shouted, looking over his signature reverently. "My son is going to be so excited!"
Her son? Maybe Edward wasn't in a band cougars listened to. What did boys listen to? Rap? I checked Edward for massive jewelry and tattoos. Nope. Definitely not rap.
The woman bounded away blissfully, and I realized that maybe she wasn't macking on Edward after all. Maybe I actually had a chance.
We made some smalltalk, which turned into bigtalk, which turned into the kind of talk you have when you're preparing to fuck someone. You know, you're talking, but you're not really listening? You're planning your moves and mentally trying to remember how to do use a stripper pole. What? The guy was probably Bret Michaels without the bandana and eyeliner…and I was in a sorority in college and we had a pole and a lot of free time…
"Listen," he said, leaning in, "I don't think that group is going to leave me alone tonight." He gestured toward where the woman was seated. For the past half-hour, she had been showing her friends the autograph, and they all started doing this weird little dance, kind of like the twist only with their fingers pointed. Effing weirdos.
"It must be nice to meet fans, though," I said, perplexed at the entire situation.
He cringed. "Not like this. In this case, I'd rather not talk about work at all," he said, eyes suddenly smoldering. Holy shit, was it getting hot in here, or was Edward trying to singe off my clothes with his eye-lasers?
"Ok," I said dumbly, "Want to go someplace else?" I asked, completely not caring about abandoning "Lauren's Last Night Out".
He took my hand and we walked out of the bar. I was giggling the whole way. I hadn't left a bar with a guy in ages, and this time I was sober enough to appreciate just how hot this one was. And rock-god-ish. I was, however, just slightly buzzed enough to not ask questions.
Edward hailed a cab and I didn't expect the ride to be so hot. His hands roamed my arms, then legs, then hair, and within two blocks, we were making out as though the cab were a closet and we only had seven minutes until the door opened. He had awesome breath despite the alcohol, and the butter-hands felt even better than I imagined, especially when they settled gently on my neck and stroked my collarbone lightly.
We arrived at a chic little boutique hotel and I got excited thinking about what exotic soaps would be in the bathroom, and what kind of underwear Edward was wearing.
Edward nearly raced through the lobby with me to the elevator, where we continued our grope-fest-2010. I aggressively pinned him against the elevator buttons, which was a bad idea since we ended up stopping on each floor instead of proceeding quickly to the twenty-fifth, where his room was. I got kind of used to kissing him for eight seconds and then pausing for the door. It became a game—how much could we get away with before the door opened? Answers varied. Sometimes he'd have his hand in my bra by the time we heard the "ding", other times I'd busy myself with the waistband of his jeans, trying to gauge his size before actually finding out.
At long (LONG) last, we made it to his floor, then down the hall to his room, where he slid his key-card in and out suggestively until the green light went on. My green light had been on for about thirty minutes now.
The room was actually really extravagant. His band must do well, I realized as I entered the room. It was a suite, and it was completely pimped out. Marble, silk, baskets of food and a full bar adorned the surfaces. Tres chi-chi. Although it wasn't trashed enough for a rock-god.
"Wow," I mumbled, taking in my surroundings. Edward stifled my mouth with his, as if to say he didn't want to talk about it. Big surprise—he was evasive about his job all night.
Once his tongue passed my lips, I didn't care. So what if he wasn't a hardcore guitar thrasher. He could be the frontman in a Michael Bolton tribute band for all I cared. His kiss was the only thing that mattered.
Oh, and the raging boner that was now pinning me to the wall.
We undressed far too quickly for my liking. I really wanted to take my sweet time and ogle this perfect man slowly, but our hormones had other ideas. His shirt flew over his head, almost of its own volition, and I wondered where one could get self-propelling shirts. My hands shoved themselves down his pants, yanking them to the floor in one fluid motion. I may be clumsy during the day, but if I know what I want, I am capable of anything. Including deftly pulling off a hot musician's jeans.
He had deftly undone my front-closure bra, and let my breasts fall into his hands neatly. He squeezed and I moaned, "Are you going to make me sing, Mister Rock Star?"
Jesus Christ, who was writing my dialogue? Some porn director? I mentally castigated myself.
He just grunted and threw me onto the bed aggressively. Me likey.
Edward, regardless of his day job, was an absolute maniac in bed, I decided. He was raw, primal and purely manly. I assumed that his music was equally aggressive. His stubble rubbed against my thighs as he used his teeth to tear my underwear off in one rough motion. His hands gripped my wrists as he pinned me to the bed and ground against me, nude and desperate for entrance.
I couldn't possibly deny him that. My body was positively begging for it. I moaned and parted my legs, scooting one up his back as he penetrated me, swift and hard. I grabbed his hair in one hand and his ass in the other, and held on for dear life.
Jackhammer. This man, this Edward, was an absolute machine. There was no room for subtlety in his bed. He fucked like he meant it, and he meant it all night. I knew that I'd be sore in the morning from his creative positioning and vigorous thrusting, but like a great workout—the burn would be worth it. His body was toned and lean, and I enjoyed watching every muscle of it work. His face was even more handsome when dampened with our sweat.
Don't get me wrong, just because it was fast and hard and all night long doesn't mean it was impersonal. He whispered about my beauty and grunted my name and I swear that even though he wasn't singing, I could tell he would have a beautiful voice when it eventually burst in song on the stage.
So, I acted on that impulse, and in the morning asked if I could have a ticket to his show.
He cringed, and shook his head. "You wouldn't like it," he said, pulling his pants on, and planting a gentle kiss on my forehead.
I threw my arms around his still-bare shoulders and decided to beg. "You don't know that," I said, pouting. "I wouldn't even care if you bit chickens heads off on stage. I don't care if you're an Elvis impersonator. I want to hear that voice of yours sing." I threw my leg around his waist and stopped him from getting his pants on.
His eyes sparked aflame again, and his mouth smirked wickedly. "I'm afraid my band isn't that exciting, Bella," he crooned. "and truthfully, I want to get to know you better before you make any judgments about my work."
I pouted, confused. His lyrics must be raunchier and ruder than Eminem's—although I gotta admit, the lyrics "shaking that ass like a donkey with Parkinsons", albeit uncouth and inappropriate, were original and elicited a laugh from me every time.
"So what do you propose?" I asked, sliding my hands down both sides of his muscular "v". Want—to—lick—
"I'm here for the whole weekend—my last show is Sunday afternoon. I say we hang out again tonight after my 3:00 performance and have breakfast tomorrow morning. By then, I think maybe I'll have made such an impression on you, that you won't even judge me," he said, voice raw with passion, but vulnerable and exposed.
I ground against him some more, tossed back my hair, and dared him to make a very deep impression on me one more time.
He complied, happily and with equal gusto as last night. Like I said before—an absolute maniac.
So, even though I expected another fuck-me-sideways-fest later in the day, we actually hung out for a while before getting down and very, very dirty.
We talked—a lot.
We walked around town and I showed him the sights.
He told me all about his golden retriever, Chester Copperpot, and I gave him mad props for the Goonies reference.
Here and there, however, he signed autographs discreetly and continued to be evasive about his work, but I let it slide because I'd find out tomorrow exactly what this man did for a living.
I had narrowed it down to either metal or progressive rock, but the name of the band was probably pervy and that's why he didn't want to tell me. That had to be it…right? Or maybe he wore Bowie-esque tights and makeup and thought I'd peg him for a flamer.
He told me a little about his bandmates, but that was it. Jasper, Emmett, and Carlisle were all his cousins, and they had formed the band after an impromptu performance at a relative's birthday party. Apparently everyone there encouraged them to "go pro", and the rest, he said, was history.
I divulged a bit about myself as well. That I was from Phoenix originally, that I never really clicked with my friends, and that I found more solace in reading than in socializing.
"I'd say you were a breath of fresh air," he said, smiling and touching my hand in a small outdoor café, "but that would be too cliché."
I took the bait. "So, what would you compare me to?" I asked.
He took a long breath, and searched my face for a moment with his eyes. "Sunshine."
I grunted and rolled my eyes. "Yes, because I'm so fucking peppy and optimistic, right? Are my blonde roots showing?" I figured if he was going to get to know me, he should get to know my snark as well as the facts of my life.
He squeezed my hand tighter. "I meant it. I'm from a town where it's cloudy or raining 90% of the time. Growing up, the days where it was sunny—really and truly sunny—were few and far between. On those days, I'd drop everything I was doing, and just sit with my face in the sun and enjoy what a rare joy it was."
I sipped my iced tea thoughtfully. It seemed like a sweet compliment, but I still didn't get it. "So, how does that make me like sunshine?" I said. I probably should have dropped it, but curiosity was getting the better of me, and the guy was only around for another day or so, so I went for it.
"Because you're unlike anyone I've ever met—especially since becoming famous," he said, eyes dark. "Every woman I meet seems to know who I am, and only wants to be with me for…other reasons. Jasper, Emmett, and Carlisle all met their ladies before we hit it big—they never had to worry about someone being with you for the money or for the fame or because their kid is obsessed with you."
I laughed. "So you like me because you were able to pick me up at a bar without my knowing you were a rock star?"
He shook his head. "It's not like that. I just like that I met you under normal circumstances, and that you are completely yourself around me. You have no idea how refreshing that is. It's like a day of sunshine after 200 days of rain."
I think I get it now. "Ok," I said, "well you're all sunshine-y to me as well, I guess. Too bad you're going back on tour tomorrow." I had to remind him that he wasn't proposing, here. I couldn't let myself get too attached to someone who simply would be gone the next day. I could enjoy him for now, but that's it.
"Tour's over in two weeks. Then some taping, but really I won't be on the road again for another year," he said eagerly.
I nodded and smiled and we ate the rest of our dinner with no further talk about the future.
Then we returned to his hotel and fucked like bunnies.
I had no idea what to wear to his show. I thought about doing a bit too much black liner, just in case it was more on the metal side, but realized that it just made me look sad. I opted for some jeans and an old Grateful Dead tee. Everyone loves the Dead, right? I straightened my hair and put on some lipgloss and headed to the concert venue.
My ticket was a VIP backstage pass, so I didn't even get to see the name of the band. It was just all sorts of security codes and pretentious hoopla, but they still let me right in the special entrance and down some cool tunnels and areas.
I'll be honest—it didn't seem like any concert I had ever been to. First off, it was in the middle of the day, and I couldn't smell a whiff of reefer. When I looked out into the audience from the side where my tunnel lead, I saw people of all ages. Maybe he's a classical performer? The stage was still dark and I couldn't see how it was set up, so I just got settled in my special seat and waited patiently for the show.
I fidgeted with my phone, I played with my hair, I did everything I could to escape the nerves. I simply couldn't wait for the performance. The anticipation was killing me, and the thought of watching Edward perform made me drench my unmentionables.
Suddenly, the lights in the house dimmed, and screeches rang throughout the audience. No opening act, I guess. A booming voice came over the loudspeakers, and my ears perked up in anticipation.
"Boys and girls, here they are! Please welcome….THE WOBBLES!"
Then, the fanfare began as I sat there, dumbfounded, putting the pieces of the puzzle together like a braindamaged monkey.
The curtain went up, and the stage was set like a giant carnival. Bright primary colors, balloons, and the four happiest looking men I had ever seen stood up front and waved at the crowd of adoring children and parents.
Edward was the Green Wobble.
"Who here likes teddy bears?" the blond, older Wobble asked.
The kids all flipped their shit.
"Our first song is about a teddy bear named FUZZY WUZZY!" Edward shouted, hopping up and down like a newly-cranked Jack-in-the-Box.
The kids were borderline passing out from excitement at this point.
With my jaw stretching towards the floor and my eyeballs threatening to leave my head, I watched as the sexual deviant I had been fucking did a perfectly cheery and rousing rendition of "Fuzzy Wuzzy Was a Bear".
It was hard for me to watch Edward like this—grinning, bouncing, and singing about barnyard animals, so I took a moment to take in the crowd's reactions some more.
The kids' expressions were…indescribable. They were euphoric; they were mesmerized. Parents stood there rapt, thrilled that their children were getting to see their idols live. Fathers and mothers alike did the little dances with each song. Toddlers pantomimed the words, and even babies were being jiggled into dance moves by their parents.
It was positively adorable.
I smiled, and returned my eyes toward Edward. I have to admit, he was good at this. He was transformed. His huge grin was unfalteringly joyous and pure, and the singing voice that rang out from his luscious mouth had perfect pitch and rich tones. You know, despite the fact that he was singing the alphabet.
Now I knew what he meant. Women wanted him because their kids saw him as the perfect man for their mommies. He was adored by children, and therefore completely desired by women. Jesus, even my ovaries felt like they were pumping out eggs just looking at this scene.
His eyes strayed for a moment towards my seat, and I gave him a thumbs up. He pointed his fingers and did the little dance that the moms at the bar were doing on Friday night. Ahh, his signature move, I see.
The song finished, and he spoke. "Do you like sunshine, boys and girls?" he asked.
The crowd cheered raucously. Kids shouted things like, "The sun is my FAVORITE!" and "Oh boy, do I!"
"Well," Edward continued, "I have a friend who is as bright as sunshine. Do you have nice friends?"
Again, uncontrollable cheers.
"This song is for my new friend!" Edward said, turning and winking to me.
I blushed. This was better than if he were a Bon Jovi impersonator singing me "Bed of Roses".
Then, he began his solo.
You are my sunshine
My only sunshine
You make me happy
When skies are grey
You'll never know, dear
How much I love you
Please don't take
My sunshine away
Then, he asked the crowd to join him. The song now surged with children's voices, paired with Edward's silky baritone, serenading me as he now turned and faced me for the duration of the song.
The rest of the show passed in a blur, but from that moment on, I was a Wobbles fanatic. I sang and danced along, and even when I didn't know a song, I made sure to give the band my unconditional enthusiasm.
Edward met me backstage after the show, clearly looking hesitant. His mouth was smiling, but his eyes betrayed his nervous heart.
"So?" he asked, embracing me quickly.
I tipped my head up to look at him in his green eyes—which, by the way, looked fantastic with his bright green turtleneck. "I have never had so much fun at a concert in my life."
He pulled back with a shocked smile. "Really?" he asked skeptically.
I nodded. "The looks on those kids faces when they watched you guys perform—I've never seen anything like it. The energy was infectious." I squeezed his hand, telling him it was ok.
It was ok that he wasn't a rock star in the traditional sense.
After seeing the reaction of the crowd, he was more of a rock star to me than anyone I had ever heard on the radio.
"So, it wasn't totally emasculating to watch me sing about Little Miss Muffet?" he joked, pulling me tight.
I stood on my tip-toes and whispered in his ear, "Miss Muffet's got a spot for you on her tuffet later."
He grabbed my ass discreetly, making sure any lucky kids with backstage passes didn't see their hero groping some random lady.
"So how about you Do-Re-Me later tonight? Maybe meet my cousins first?"
I nodded happily. "Sure. I'm glad you're only on tour for another few weeks," I said, biting my lip nervously. "I'm afraid you've made me a bit Wobbly."
He grinned and we headed towards the dressing room. "I've been told I have that effect," he said, and threw me over his shoulder.