Art by me. :-)
Daze on End is performing a farewell concert in Indianapolis. Jason realizes he's coming down with a cold, but won't back out of the show. As the performance progresses, he starts to feel worse.
It wasn’t until he took that detour offstage that he realized he was dizzy and achey. Great, he thought. Fever. With his luck, this was more than just a cold—it was the fucking flu or something. He zipped up, splashed cold water on his face and headed back to the mic.
The crowd seemed not to notice anything amiss, which was gratifying, because the band was all working overtime to be sure nothing looked amiss. This was their last show in Indy for a long time, and the crowd was invested enough not to notice when Jason’s voice cracked a few times on the last couple of songs.
He came off stage to a chorus of fans offering thanks and congratulations. He shook hands, posed for pictures and passed out hugs and autographs, all the time hoping he wasn’t spreading some kind of Stephen King level apocalyptic flu to everybody within four feet of him.
Finally, with Erik and Randy running interference, he made his way backstage. He just wanted to collapse on that Godawful germ-ridden couch for a few minutes, get his breath back and settle his head, which had started pounding during the second encore. And maybe grab more tea. He wondered if it was possible to overdose on slippery elm.
He was mulling the embarrassing music blog headlines that would result if he died of a horrible Throat Coat accident as he half-stumbled through the door. As a result, it took him a moment to realize he was not alone in the room.
There was a girl on the couch. She looked vaguely familiar. She’d probably been to his shows before. Hell, he’d probably fucked her — he’d fucked a lot of girls backstage after the show.
That was definitely what she was after. She’d taken the initiative of removing her top, and her pert, smallish breasts jiggled as she tossed back her too-blonde hair. Her nipples were small and pink and, in his fever-dazed state, seemed to be staring at him.
He stared right back, his brain struggling to parse what was going on.
She wanted to get laid. That much was obvious. From the pressure he felt in his groin, all his parts were working and ready to go in spite of the chills crawling over his skin, the throbbing headache behind his eyes and the intermittent vertigo. Besides, he had to, didn’t he? Had to take what he could from the groupies after the show, before the show — whenever — so he could give what he got back to Erik, to keep him alive and well. They’d done that for years.
But now… there was a reason he shouldn’t. Wasn’t there? He could… but he shouldn’t. For a strange second he felt like he was floating above the floor. God, how high a fever did he have?
“Jason?” the woman said, stroking a hand over the curve of one breast. She stood slowly and stepped toward him. “You remember me, don’t you?”
“Not… not really.” It was always embarrassing to have to admit that. God, he was such an asshole. Had been. He wasn’t now. Was trying very hard not to be, anyway. He was —
The girl kissed him. Hard and full, her tongue pressing into his too-hot mouth, her naked breasts almost cool against his fevered skin. Flu, he thought hazily. Everybody’s gonna get the flu. It’s gonna be like The Stand. Dude, I hated that book. Too fucking creepy. And long…
She drew back, looking into his face with wide, adoring blue eyes.
“Kayla,” Jason said, remembering then what the heat in his fevered brain had forced back.
The girl’s face fell. Jason thought she might be about to cry.
“That’s not my name.”
“No,” said a voice behind them. “That would be me.”
And Jason knew at that moment that he was well and truly screwed.
