Chapter 1

October 16th, 1983, 11.22 pm

The Jaybird Motel

The rain dripped off the roof, and far off thunder rumbled through the dark motel. The motel’s red neon sign flickered hazily, responding to the rainstorm. Conan watched it all out the window of his room with a detached air, his eyes dark and far away. He was stretched out on his bed fully clothed, muddy shoes and all. Without breaking his gaze, he reached out to the night stand and flicked a cigarette from its case. Absently putting it between his lips, he thumbed his lighter open and lit it.

He’d exhausted the T.V. already, flipping through all the stations, surprisingly uninterested even in the porn channels.

Conan was restless, relentless. He’d wandered through the room aimlessly, his mind elsewhere, before collapsing onto the bed with one arm beneath his head to gaze out the window while he smoked.

Jesus, this life could get so tiring. Going from place to place, performing at venues with varying degrees of greasiness. He was tired of it. He’d had enough, even, of the women--a new one every night, if he chose. At the beginning, he had chosen. The beginning when he was full of the sparkle and fizz of slight fame, and could handle the giddiness of choosing, and just taking, taking, taking whatever he wanted.

It had been months now. Probably a year almost, since he’d taken a woman to bed. The basic needs were taken care of easily by his own hand. Life was grey, just like the sodden world outside his window.

But what else could he do? He’d dropped high school on a whim, even though the girls liked him and life was giving him plentiful pleasures. Instead he went off to go it alone, singing other people’s songs at smoky bars.

It had been too long now. Conan rubbed a hand over his tired face. What--four, maybe five years. Twenty-two and his life already felt like it was over.

The cigarette was gone to the filter without him noticing. Grunting in surprise, Conan flicked the remnants into the ashtray on the bedside table and stood, kicking his shoes off and pulling his shirt over his head, leaving it in a heap on the floor with the rest of his clothes to go shower.

The warm spray was more than welcome on his sore back, and as he scrubbed himself clean, Conan felt the need rise up.

It made him feel pitiful, pathetic, almost dirty to meagrely satisfy his own male need, and tried to do it only when necessary. It was so unsatisfying compared to being inside a woman.

Yet still he knew it had been long enough to go without, and leaned against the shower wall, reaching for his aching cock. Pitiful that it made him shiver to feel his own hand.

There would be a fantasy girl, someone ‘with’ him. Usually it was a wanton slut, someone who knew how to be dirty in all sorts of ways and wasn’t afraid to show him.

This time when he closed his eyes, it was a girl shorter than him who stood behind the shower curtain and quietly removed her clothes, almost as if she wanted to surprise him. She slipped into the shower wordlessly and kissed him, eyes shut, mouth shut. Her arms wrapped around his body as she kissed him again, the same way, hands slowly smoothing up his back. Her breasts were small and soft against him. She nuzzled his cheek, soft dark hair wetting under the spray. Unhurried, she kissed down his chest, her hands gradually rubbing everywhere just as slowly as her lips.

Conan shuddered when her mouth found his cock, and she kissed it.

There was something different about this girl. She felt too real, for one thing. For the second ... she didn’t seem like a slut. It seemed as though she knew his body, his in particular, and knew how to love it. Somehow her quiet, slow pleasuring was more erotic to him than the whores, tonight.

Pushing away the unusual thoughts for later, Conan focused completely on the fantasy again.

She had sunken to her knees, kissing his hips and rubbing her cheek languorously against his cock, nuzzling it. He watched her, touching him so carefully and perfectly. Her hand wrapped around his cock, hardly able to get her fingers all the way around his girth, and needing more than her two hands if she wanted to cover his entire length.

He watched her stroke his cock slowly, the skin sliding back and forth. She looked up at him straight in the eyes, saw him watching her, and smiled just the slightest bit, leaning forward to kiss the head of his cock, and opening her lips to envelope the tip. It was so warm and wet in there, and Conan shuddered, trying to keep control of himself and not cum yet.

But there she was, urging him to, sucking harder, flicking her tongue against him, gently squeezing his cock. Cum in my mouth, she urged him, quietly serious. Conan, do it. Cum in my mouth. I want to taste it again.

He moaned out loud, and a name rolled off his tongue. ‘Marie,’ he gasped, his hand stroking his cock quickly, urgently, needfully. ‘I’m going to... ‘ Shuddering, cum splattered the shower floor. But in his fantasy, the girl took his cock deeper and swallowed, swallowed again, and smiled softly up at him.

October 17th, 7.30 am

Conan downshifted, reaching over to grab the cup of lukewarm black coffee from his cup holder. He’d checked out a half hour ago, hardly having unpacked. The suitcase and his guitar got thrown into the passenger side of his blue ‘82 Ford pickup, he’d jumped into driver’s, and picked up a coffee at the nearest café. Now he was on the road to the next venue, a bar called The Laughing Cow, several hours from where he was now.

The rain had let up, but it was still wet, still grey, and now foggy too.

But Conan was in no great hurry. The gig didn’t start until late that night. Nothing to be concerned about.

The radio was on, barely a whisper, but when he noticed that John Denver’s ‘This Old Guitar’ had come on, he turned it up.

This morning, as he navigated the fog in his trusty pick-up, Conan was thinking on his dream.

It has been a while since he’d taken a hit, a long while. But he wanted one now--any way to escape again. If a dealer saw him so ragged and offered to sell him something, he’d probably take it right now. A joint, enough coke for a few lines. Just enough to give him a little buzz for his shows.

This next place was a hub, a big city. He had a few shows in a row here, one venue two nights, two more places for the next two. He’d booked the same motel for all four nights.

The fog lifted. The song changed. Conan rolled down his window, letting the slight fresh wind touch his face, blow through his messy dark curls touching his shoulders.

His dream.

He was shaking, shivering, in a white room with nobody. It was just him in there, nothing else. The hypodermic shook in his grip. How was he ever going to properly inject it like this? But he needed it. He had to.

Gulping down air, swallowing heavily, he aimed the needle in the right direction. At least he’d got the elastic on right; the veins in the crook of his elbow bulged out impressively.

Closing his eyes for a second, he tried to slow his breathing. His heart almost stopped when he felt a hand brush against his shoulder, feather-light.

Conan didn’t open his eyes. He still shivered.

‘Let me have that, Conan,’ a soft voice said quietly, suggesting it, not demanding. He was torn, yet relieved, to have an out, and thrust the needle desperately in the direction of the voice. A small cold hand took the needle, and he heard it clatter onto the floor several feet away; she’d thrown it.

He was shivering even more now, and buried his face into his hands, tears dripping from his eyes.

Fingers gently untied the elastic from his elbow, letting it fall.

‘You’re okay,’ the voice told him. The girl pried the hands from his face and put her arms around him. He was surprised to feel himself crush her into him, sobbing.

He hadn’t seen her. Waking, breathing hard, tears staining his cheeks, shaking like a leaf, he had lain awake the rest of the night.