A/N: This isn't my first story but it is my first on fanfiction. I've gotten into How to Rock & Stevie and Zander pretty recently and immediately shipped the shit out of them. Haha, I didn't think there was enough M-Rated Zevie so here's my addition. Be kind & please give me your thoughts. Enjoy the first chapter!
... ... ...
He knew moving to New York would mean sacrifice.
He knew he wouldn't have a steady income every week. Hell, he knew he wouldn't even have a steady meal. He knew that he'd have to stop going to bars during his blue periods because he was running up his tab into the hundreds. He knew he would have to stop buying mousse even though it gave his hair unbelievable lift. Which was probably one of the most upsetting cedes. But Zander didn't care about any of those things (omit the hair products) because he accepted that becoming a musician wasn't the most fruitful career. His parents have reminded him of that enough, thank you. He understood that it wouldn't happen overnight and he'd have to work his ass off to make it.
He knew all of this.
Of course, if that break would just hurry the hell up he would definitely appreciate it. It would be worth the 24/7 nagging from his parents and the shitty loft apartment and the street playing every night that all the money given to him by strangers combined hardly payed for a pack of gum. And sure, did he have those moments of weakness where he just wanted to give up and pursue a steady paying career? He'd be lying if he said he didn't. It's the moments that people applauded during the street performances and when his mother said she believed in him that pushed him to try music for another day. So, if he had to substitute a shampoo bottle for his Grammy at the moment then he would do it.
Then he got a bar tending job in this up and coming lounge in the heart of Brooklyn and he was ecstatic. Mostly because they had live music and with a stage twenty five feet away from his workplace he felt a little closer to his ultimate goal of becoming that famous star he'd always imagined being.
His fucking boss won't give him a goddamn break and insists that bartenders belongs behind the bar and asks questions like, who would take his 12 o'clock shift which is the busiest hour and because Zander is a favorite with the ladies switching him from bar to stage would fuck up the flow. But did that stop him? No.
"You're a persistent motherfucker, aren't you?" Sam says, squeezing past two groups of people on his way to table 8.
Pushing aside a couple, he keeps in pace with his boss, "C'mon Sam! All I'm asking for is one performance. I know for a fact that you have Saturday at 11 open because Danny canceled on you and you haven't found a replacement yet." Zander begs, following the middle-aged man through the throngs of people slowly working their way to a drunken stupor. As Sam places the drinks on the table and finishes handing them off to each person, he turns around and faces Zander, "You need me, man."
Danny laughs heartily and let's out a snort, "I need you? You know how many desperate musicians there are in New York, Zander? More than the hairs on my dick."
An indescribably disgusting picture pops into Zander's head that he immediately try's to get out as quick as it came in.
He really was desperate. So he upped the ante. "How many willing to do it for free?" He couldn't help the disappointment in his voice as the words slipped past his tongue.
Sam quirked a brow and exposed a few premature wrinkles on his exhausted face, "Free? You've gotta be shitting me."
Zander nodded vigorously, seeing the shred of hope in that four letter word, "Free, and I'll work double hours tomorrow." He pushed extra work hours onto the imaginary poker table and looked expectantly at Sam.
Sam looked hard at Zander, processing the look of pure determination and frenzy. "Alright, kid. I'll let you play tomorrow."
Zander exploded into a face-splitting grin and grabbed Sam in a spine crushing hug, "Yes! Thank you, Sam, you won't regret it!" Sam, not used to male contact, stiffened and pried the buzzing Zander off of his body, "Hug me again and I'll kick your ass."
The excitement washed clear off his face and Sam walked toward the bar. Halfway, he turned and yelled, "You're welcome, kid."
... ... ...
It's his shift tonight so Zander gets to work cleaning glasses and wiping down the table before people start wafting in. It's a fruitless effort because 9 times out of 10 some idiot has a few drinks, spills all over the place, and the glass goes smashing on the floor. Zander likes to keep it tidy for the first couple of hours before anyone fucks with it. He's done in ten minutes and watches the crew put together the stage for the first act. Usually, there's a soundcheck and a rehearsal but the first act is running late and can't make it for another half an hour. It's shit like that that really irks him. He's worked his ass off trying to get gigs and some chick'll come in all tits and ass and gets anything and everything handed to her on a silver platter. If he could, he'd step up to Sam in ass-hugging shorts and do what had to be done . . . but he doesn't because that'd be weird and he's pretty sure Sam would eats his balls for breakfast and give his dick to his 90 pound German Shepard, Rocky.
Its around 10 o'clock and Zander is treating the first couple girls in the bar to a round because they're kinda cute and fuck it, ya know? The first act gets in and Zander could give a fuck because one of the girls is talking about how she's double jointed and he goes cross-eyed thinking of the things he could do in bed with a girl like that. He takes a couple glances at the stage and notices it's a girl just by the curve of her body and the slope of her ass. He can't get a look at her face because she's always faced toward the band, Gravitation 5 or something. He's just about closed the deal with the flexible chick so he doesn't lose any real thought over it. He hears them tuning up their bass and the faint sounds of the girl warming up her voice and he suddenly gets a twinge of envy and excitement all at the same time, he's almost winded by it. He's gonna be up there soon, in a few hours. It's all becoming very surreal to him and he has no idea why.
The girls are talking about Demi's miraculous recovery and Zander takes a look at the stage because who the fuck cares?
That's when he sees her face and holy fuck. He can't hear anything those girls are saying and he worries about that for about half a second before he directs his full attention on her face again. He would care if she wasn't his primary focus. It's the flawless olive skin that draws him in; these perfect curls frame her face and stops a little under her shoulders. Her body is fucking killer. It's all curves and deep slopes that he could reach out and touch if he had no self control. She's wearing a tight corset sundress that flows out at her hips and ends above her knees. There's a brief flash in his head of those legs wrapped around his waist while he pushes her up against a wall, his hands roaming her body's every inch.
Okay, maybe its a not-so-brief flash. His hearing kicks back in and her voice breaks through. She's singing a mellow harmony and the song is about the generic heartbreak that changed her outlook on love forever or something. Her voice has a slight rasp when she hits her high notes that cause goosebumps to rise on the skin of his arms and legs. She's captivating, mesmerizing . . .
And he wants her.
They finish their set and take a break. There's enough people in the bar by now that there's a light applause. She smiles gratefully at the crowd and gives them a humble nod. The few girls from before are in the bathroom 'freshening up'. Which doesn't really make sense because the bathrooms in this place are anything but fresh. Zander looks back up and he sees her walking near the bar with the drummer.
Holy shit. She's walking near the bar.
Zander composes himself quickly and remains impassive as he wipes down a glass. They both take a seat and she turns to face him. This time he gets an up close look at her face. The drummer whispers something in her ear and she starts laughing. Her smile makes her face look ten years younger and her childish giggle takes away two more years. Her eyes crease around the sides while she's smiling, it's . . . endearing.
"Vodka on the rocks and a beer, please?" She asks, making unnerving eye contact with him.
He gets to work on the drinks and thanks God that he was eavesdropping on their conversation because he probably would've drowned her out while staring at her.
"Oh shit, Nelson is screwing with wires. I better go before he shocks himself again." The drummer gets up and hurries over to the stage.
It's just Zander and the girl and the ring of silence that settles in between them. He's kind of pissed at himself because usually he's smooth as hell. By now in the conversation he'd have her picturing him in-between her legs. This girl is different though, its like she intimidates him. Zander doesn't get intimidated by girls, he intimidates them. Which is why this is probably fucking with him so badly.
He's so wrapped up in his own head that he almost jumps when she says: "That's really cool."
He lifts a brow at her comment. She notices this and motions to the tribal tattoo on his upper arm. "I've always loved tattoos. I've got six of them actually."
Zander noticed two tattoos on each of her ankles and one on the back of her neck while she was preforming. He didn't know where the other three were but he's pretty sure he'd like to lick the spots where they are.
He's not really sure how to reply to that so he just says, "Really?"
She nods, turning back to the stage while taking a sip of her drink.
He can sense the silence settling back in so he takes a leap and pouring her drink he says, "You were really good." Nodding once toward the stage, "You know, singing."
She smiles and he feels like he accomplished something, "Thank you. That's actually a new song I wrote. I've been working on it for a year."
He's genuinely impressed, "Christ, a year?"
"Well, I'm usually working on them by myself."
Zander's never met anyone that's been that dedicated to music in a long time. Of course, the musicians he's met have been far and few between but most of them all want the same thing: money and fame. They don't do it for the real reasons and because their passion is music. They all wanna get famous fast and put no work in. It's really refreshing meeting someone who gives a shit. "I actually write too."
She quirks a perfect brow, "You're a performer?" She seems sincerely shocked, looking Zander up and down and accessing him.
He hesitates, "Yeah, why?"
She shrugs and finishes off her drink, "You don't look like it."
"What's that supposed to mean?" He's a little put off. He did not expect that response and for her to play it off so casually definitely bugged the shit out of him. What does that even mean that he doesn't "look like it"?
She laughs lightly when she realizes he's offended, "You don't look like a performer to me. I walked in here and thought you were a smooth talking bartender and you are a smooth talking bartender. There's no shame in it." She shrugs again. That's starting to get irritating.
He's speechless. Is she talking about those girls? He didn't even see her looking at him. If anything, he was staring at her longer than she probably was. Not that he'd ever admit that.
Zander narrows his eyes, "What the hell are you talking about?"
Near the stage the drummer yells, "Yo Stevie, bring me my beer!"
She grabs the beer off the counter and looks at Zander, "Look, don't take it personally. It's just my opinion. Maybe to some bubblegum popping little girls you're the shit because you do your little wink and they swoon but, for me, I'd have to see it to believe it." She hops off the seat and runs a hand through her hair, "I'll see you around." Zander watches her walk back to her band and set up with them.
Zander is dumbstruck. This girl is fucking insane. What kind of person insults someone and walks away laughing? He hasn't dealt with some shit like this since high school and Grace King tore him to shreds in front of everyone. He made himself feel better by fucking her and never calling her back a few years later but this girl isn't like some blonde airhead with a nice rack and no self respect. This girl . . . Stevie.
He's not done with her yet.