I Want You (I Want You So Bad)

Written for a music prompts game. The song was “I Want You (She’s So Heavy)” by the Beatles.
Trace flashes his “everybody loves me, baby” grin at the crowd as he launches into his guitar solo and the audience screams. He’s a golden god tonight — most nights — shirtless, gleaming with sweat and body glitter, leather trousers tight around his slender hips and long legs, his head thrown back in rapture as his fingers fly over the frets.

I glance at Dev behind his drum kit and he shrugs in resignation. Of course people love the lead guitarist. It’s not just that he’s the front man — he’s also gorgeous with golden hair and skin, energetic as a puppy, a voice like an angel and a body like sin. It’s a wonder I manage to keep my tongue in my mouth, watching him. I just keep up the rhythm on my bass in unison with Dev’s beats and hope Trace doesn’t get too absorbed in his solo for long.

Ah — good, he keeps the solo under two minutes this time and jerks his head to the microphone so I can join him in harmony. We sing the bridge one more time, the audience roaring along, and when we finish the chorus the audience is still singing until they erupt into cheers as we all stand together and take a bow.

The lights go out and we’re hustled off stage, past roadies and groupies and fans, pausing only to sign autographs and take quick pictures, and then we’re alone in the dressing room and all the noise is shut out behind the door. Our management and staff know we like to be alone for a while after a show to unwind, before any kind of meet-and-greet or interview or even going back to the hotel. The concert may be over but the night’s only begun.

Trace is still breathless with adrenaline but that doesn’t stop him from leaping into my arms. I catch him with an “Oof!” and grin. “Awesome show, Sammy!” he proclaims and kisses me, and when Dev shakes his head at us Trace holds out his hand and gestures him over. “You, too, baby,” says Trace so Dev comes closer and lets Trace capture his mouth in a more lingering kiss than the one he gave me.

It’s a wonder we did three encores tonight. When Trace wants Dev he lets nothing stand in his way, not even the fact that I’m starting to shake from holding him up. I can’t blame him — Trace may be a golden god but Dev is one of those sweet-faced, boy-next-door-looking types, all dark-eyed innocence despite the earrings and lip ring and tattoos up his arms and down his legs. They’ve been together since we were a garage band. It’s a dramatic relationship — there’s a lot of yelling and door-slamming and make-up sex, while I stand in the background and quietly lust for whoever’s annoying me less today.

(It’s usually Dev. I think it’s the affinity between drummers and bassists. Or the fact that while he’s less flashy about it, he’s really, really hot.)

Trace twists in my arms to get closer to Dev, the kiss going on and on, and finally I say, “Enough, guys, if you’re fucking I’m getting a drink,” and they break apart, giggling.

“Sorry, Sammy,” Trace says and hugs my neck. Dev pats my back and gives me an apologetic look with those dark eyes. They exchange a look and Trace gives a little nod.

Dev kisses me, right in front of Trace, his hand still on my back.

I drop Trace.

Not really drop him — I’m in pretty good shape but the guy weighs more than my bass, okay? — but lose my grip on him enough that he’s on his feet, his arms still around my neck. I let Dev kiss me — because who wouldn’t want to be kissed by Dev? — but I still expect Trace to push us apart or start yelling or tell Dev to lay off already.

Dev’s mouth is hot and he tastes like Trace — water, cigarette smoke, the tart fruity candy our venue riders request by the bagful. I sway at the touch of his tongue against my lips. Trace whispers, “Yeah, that’s good,” and I open my mouth. Trace rubs my chest and when I peek at him his lips are parted too, his blue eyes dark.

Dev’s mouth leaves mine and we both shiver. Trace, though, is smiling, his arms around both of us, and he kisses first Dev and then me, his mouth open. “What do you say, Sammy?” he whispers to my mouth, and Dev’s hand is still on my back, tracing circles through my sweat-soaked shirt.

“Thank you?” I mumble, stupid with surprise and lust. They both laugh, Dev’s warm, Trace’s soft. Dev pulls my head to his shoulder and kisses my hair.

“We think we should stop leaving you out,” he says, to the point as always.

“We’ve noticed,” Trace says, “that you’ve been a little tense lately. Not happy with us. Not bringing back any lovely boys to relieve the stress. All work and no play makes for a sad, crazed Sammy.”

“The three of us,” I say, watching Dev’s face. I can believe this of Trace — he’s always been the adventurous one –but it’s harder with Dev. But Dev is still stroking my hair affectionately, his face as warm as ever, his heart beating steadily under my ear.

“The three of us,” he says, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever heard.

Trace springs back, laughing happily. “But first we have to fulfill our obligations! Come, boys!” He wipes himself down hastily with a towel. Dev holds me for a moment more before we do the same, and follow Trace when he bursts out of the dressing room with a, “Minions, your gods have descended from on high to bask in your love!”

Dev and I exchange wry glances again. We do that all night. We do that a lot.