Monsieur le Rock Star

~4100 words :: Vampire Chronicles :: Louis/Lestat :: 11/23/02
Lestat and Louis are finally reunited after the show. (Note: This is the sequel to Your Face in a Crowd and is fourth in the Coming Back to Life series, a collection of stories set in a universe where Akasha doesn’t rise.)

Things you don’t think of, or I don’t anyway. The fact that if tickets go on sale at 10:00 AM for an extremely popular new band, they might be sold out by the time you wake at 7:30 PM, even if you run with supernatural speed to the Tower Records.

“What do you mean sold out?” I ask, trying not to panic. He couldn’t possibly mean the entire show. “Just here, right? Another location might have some left?”

The long-haired kid behind the counter shakes his head. “Sold out means sold out. Sorry.”

“But the arena can hold thousands of people!” It isn’t quite something I can easily wrap my mind around, all those people in one place.

“And this is the Vampire Lestat we’re talking about. We had people lining up the minute the concert was announced.” My disappointment must be written all over my face because he gives this sort of ‘wish there was something I could do’ shrug and says, “You could try a scalper, but it’ll probably be pretty steep.”

“Scalper?” It’s not a term I’m familiar with, at least not the way he’s using it. I have visions of Indians and tomahawks.

“Yeah, haven’t you ever been to a concert before?” I shake my head. “Guys who buy up a bunch of tickets and then resell ’em for twice the price, sometimes more. They’re usually lurking around outside before the show.”

I thank him for his time and leave the store.

I could look for him ahead of time. If I really tried, I’m sure I could find out where the band is staying and meet up with him before the concert. The thing is, I don’t want to. I want to see him on the stage. I want to stand in a crowd of thousands and watch his eyes scan the crowd. To know that he is looking for me.

The night of the concert. It starts late, of course. This is summer and Lestat can’t wake that much earlier than I.

I hunt on the way to the arena. The thought of making one of these scalpers my victim has crossed my mind. Lestat would do it in an instant, I know. Kill two birds with one stone. But I don’t. I have plenty of money; the cost of the ticket doesn’t bother me.

I buy my ticket and also a Vampire Lestat t-shirt. There are several different designs, but the one I choose is black with the band logo on the back and a drawing on the front. A disembodied mouth, tongue out and pressing against a bloody fang. I shudder in anticipation, thinking of his fangs in me. Tossing my old shirt in a trashcan, I pull the t-shirt over my head and smooth out my hair.

The show isn’t supposed to start for some time yet, but they’ve begun letting people in. The air is thick with smoke, both tobacco and marijuana, and I wrinkle my nose. Even more overwhelming than the smoke, though, is the excitement. The closer it gets to show time, the higher their adrenaline levels climb. Hearts pounding, blood pulsing through their veins. I can smell it and I am very, very glad I fed well before coming.

Outwardly I remain calm, but inwardly I am no different from these kids. We all worship the same god, and he goes by the name of Lestat.

I wonder what he will wear. In the magazines and the videos everything is all leather and silk and mesh. I shiver, my fingers aching to touch him. Soon, I tell myself. It’s my mantra.

We shuffle inside, herded like sheep through the doors. Once in, all semblance of order is lost as people mill around, trying to find their seats. I take my ticket out to confirm the number, carefully placing it back in my wallet when I’m through. Is it foolish to want to keep it as a souvenir? When I get home, I’ll put it with his book and the magazines, the newspaper clippings and the record.

Then I remember that I probably won’t be going home tonight and it hits me for the first time that this is real. In less than an hour he will be up on that stage, singing, dancing, throwing caution to the wind. Challenging the world. Refusing to be relegated to the darkness. One can’t help but admire him. Running headlong through eternity, at times stumbling, but refusing to be beaten down. He shines.

A momentary hush falls over the crowd before they erupt as one into a great roar as Lestat and the other band members walk out onto the stage. I suddenly wish I had paid the ridiculously high price for a closer seat; I feel like I’m miles away.

He throws his arms up and screams. Like a child, he’s hyper, jumping up and down. Yelling and yelling, but I can’t understand the words. I am overwhelmed just by the sound of his voice. Not a recording this time. Not a photograph or a picture on the television. Live and in person. Lestat.

Tears threaten to overflow and drench me in blood. My heart tries to pound its way out of my chest and I’m weak in the knees, grabbing onto the seat in front of me to keep my balance.

I close my eyes as the music starts, letting his voice wash over me. Voice like an angel, clear and beautiful even when singing this modern rock music. I remember him sitting at the harpsichord as he played for Claudia and me, his voice filling the townhouse. I remember other times, his voice no more than a whisper in my ear, singing an old lullaby as we lay exhausted and entwined.

I open my eyes. He is scanning the crowd as he sings, glittering grey eyes searching. And then he finds me and I’m caught in that gaze, unable to breathe. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. Affirmation. Confirmation. The reason for my continued existence.

I just stare at him and finally he smiles. A smile like the sunshine I can only see in my mind’s eye, brighter than the lights of the stage. It draws the nervous tension out of my body and I relax and smile back, like the moon reflecting the sun.

The music changes. This is one of the faster songs. I know it, of course. I know all his songs by heart. How many times have I lain in bed in the early morning, listening to his voice over and over before sleep takes me? Too many to count.

His hand slides up under his shirt and the muscles of my stomach clench and flutter in response as if it were me he touched and not himself. This is exactly what he wants, of course. He wants to get a reaction out of me. Typical.

Not content with that, he rips his shirt off and tosses it out to someone in the crowd. He’s still looking at me, though. Still waiting for my reaction. I roll my eyes, which is not at all what he was looking for.

A flash of anger that I have dared defy him. It’s not that I am unaffected, quite the opposite. My jeans feel too tight and my breath is becoming markedly ragged. I feel my cheeks burn as he caresses himself and then blows me a kiss.

The concert cannot end soon enough.

As the last notes of the song fade away and the band troops offstage, I make my way through the crowd to the exit. No one else is leaving and a quick scan of a nearby mind tells me that they expect Lestat to come back on for another round of songs. Perfect. That will give me time to find the backstage area.

I want to be the first thing he sees when he comes off the stage.

Just the thought of it is enough to send shivers down my spine. To see him at last, and not just to see him but to touch him as well. More than a lifetime since I’ve tasted his blood, his skin. It’s all I can think about.

I walk past the security guards, too fast for them to notice me. Once or twice I skim their thoughts to make sure I’m going in the right direction. Yes, there’s the door.

A guard stops me. “Hey kid, this is a restricted area. You’ve got no business down here.”

“I’m a personal friend of Lestat’s. He’s expecting me.”

“Where’s your pass, then?” he asks dubiously. Pass? At first I think he means my ticket, but then I realize he’s talking about the piece of plastic hanging around his neck. Some sort of identification denoting those allowed near the band, I assume.

I pat my pockets and do my best job of looking like I expected to find it there and am shocked to find it missing. “I must have lost it…” I say, in what I hope is an appropriate mix of annoyance and desperation. Taking a step closer so that only a few inches separate us, I put my hand on his shoulder and look up at him through my lashes. “You’ll still let me in, won’t you?”

He hesitates and I give him a slight mental push, something with which I’m not altogether comfortable, but have a fair level of proficiency. No thanks to Lestat, of course. But I learned quite a bit about our powers during my years with Armand.

Nodding, the guard opens the door and I slip through into a room that is a jumble of boxes and instrument cases. Men scurry about their business, taking little notice of me as I slip into the shadows across from the stage entrance and wait.

Lestat is still singing, but it’s not the same song as when I left the arena. How much longer will this go on? I close my eyes and simply enjoy the sound of his voice.

Standing still as a statue, the only movement that of my blood racing through my veins, demanding to be let. My veins cry out to be pierced, bled, sucked dry and then filled again. Filled with him.

Once again the music fades into silence, replaced within seconds by wild cheering and applause, and I can hear Lestat shouting his thanks to the crowd.

Two young men and a girl exit the stage, the other band members. Any moment now. Will he know I’m waiting for him here? He must have noticed my absence from the crowd when he returned to the stage.

I am suddenly very nervous.

And then he’s there in front of me, not twenty feet away. I feel giddy and sick and utterly unsure of myself. Whatifwhatifwhatif? My mind is racing.

He’s laughing and pushing his hair out of his face, flushed with exhilaration. And then he stops and turns toward me and for a second neither of us knows what to do.

“Nice shirt, Louis,” he says with a smirk, because the Ten Commandments According to Lestat state, “When in doubt, use sarcasm.” It doesn’t fool me like it used to.

I walk toward him slowly, trying to think of something to say in return, but I am overwhelmed and speechless and all the things I had thought to say to him have slipped through the cracks of my mind and disappeared. So instead I say his name.


I say it again, this time softer, and I’m unable to keep the wonder and the longing from my voice.

There are other people in the room still, but it is as if they have ceased to exist for me. I am drawn inexorably to Lestat and when I reach him he opens his arms and we cling to each other in silent desperation. Time stops.

Ah, and now he’s kissing me, his tongue exploring, leaving not a single millimeter of my mouth untouched. I return the favor, in my haste nicking my tongue on the razor-sharp edge of his fang. No more than a drop, maybe two, wells up before the wound is closed, and he lets out a moan of disappointment.

My blood is screaming for release. I need his fangs in me now, this very instant, or I will wither up and die. His hand snakes up under my t-shirt, his fingers digging into the grooves of my spine. Oh God. I let out a very undignified whimper. I want him so badly.

But instead I push him away. Some part of me is still coherent enough to realize that if we don’t stop now, we will end up giving these people a show that will quite possibly scare them witless. I’m not entirely comfortable with the scene we’ve made as it is, far from it.

His face starts to twist into a scowl at the perceived rejection, so I lean over and whisper in his ear, “Is there somewhere a little more private we can continue this…?”

“You never were much of an exhibitionist,” he says with a laugh and, putting his arm around my waist, guides me to the door.

“Aren’t you going to tell the others you’re leaving?” I ask, surprised.

He shakes his head. “They’re probably off partying already. Won’t even miss me.”

I lean into him as we walk, inhaling the overpowering scent of his blood. It is everywhere. Sweat still beading his forehead and upper lip, dried into his hair, making his shirt cling damply to his back. He must have put this one on when they went backstage before the encore.

“I missed you.”

A little smile hovers about his lips, a look of contentment. But then I feel a change come over him, a tenseness, and with his face carefully neutral he says, “I wondered…I wondered.”

It stings, like barbs in my heart. The slow tearing open of old wounds. There’s so much we need to talk about, but, “Not tonight,” I say. “Let’s not speak of that tonight. Please.”

And for once he doesn’t argue. I take it to mean he’s missed me, too.

So rarely does he let me in like this that I can recall in detail each and every time. This one, too, gets tucked away for safe keeping. I want it to be different with us this time, but just in case…

The rest of the walk to his car is awkward, neither of us knowing what to say.

We finally reach the parking garage. The car is one of those over-long ones, a limousine, with a chauffeur. As I get in, he says something to the driver, presumably where to take us.

It’s amazing inside, not even like a car, more like a miniature parlor or something. And I note that it’s totally closed off from the front seat. Complete privacy. My cock twitches in response to the thought and the lingering scent of his sweat threatens to overwhelm me.

He joins me what feels like hours later, but is really only a few minutes. The time between the slamming of the door and his pouncing on me could be measured in milliseconds.

The weight of him pinning me to the seat is so familiar. So right. He looks down at me and lifts his tongue to his fang, mirroring the logo on my shirt. The sight is incredibly erotic and I am so hard.

Raising himself back up, he fumbles with the buttons of my jeans, pulling them down over my hips. They get tossed onto the floor, along with my shoes. “The shirt stays on.” He grins.

I must look ridiculous lying here with my legs spread open, one knee raised, wearing nothing but a t-shirt hiked up around my ribcage, but I couldn’t care less. In the blink of an eye he’s divested himself of his own clothing and we’re lying skin to skin.

He’s kissing me, his mouth all over my face and neck, and it’s all lips and tongue and scraping fangs as our hips grind together. His mouth never pausing for an instant, he strokes the inside of my thigh and then I feel his thumbnail puncture the vein there.

A deep wound. The blood rushes down between my legs, into the cleft of my ass. He rubs his cock against mine once more and then pulls back, slicking himself up with his bloody hand. I pull my knee up farther, hooking my leg over the back of the seat, and he positions himself to enter me.

He slides in and I scream as his hardness fills me. Completes me. And then he falls on me, tearing at my throat. Not a neat puncture wound, but a ragged gash. I throw my head back, arching up to meet his thrusts. Lapping and sucking and the staccato pounding of his hips against my ass. My veins are singing; my cock in his hand is throbbing.

I have waited so long for this.

My arms tighten around his back, clawing into him. His kisses taste like my own blood. Red, red, everything is red and I realize I’m crying. I reach up and push his hair back away from his neck and sink my fangs in deep and with that first taste of his blood I’m flying over the edge, my body trembling as I come hard in his hand. He says my name like a prayer and jerks against me one more time as the hot rush of his blood fills me.

He relaxes against me, breathing heavily, as I continue to suckle at the wound on his throat. The heady scent of blood and sex fills the car, but it doesn’t drive me crazy as it did before, sated as I am now. His blood running through my veins again after so many years apart. We lie there together, lost in the swoon and the afterglow of making love, for I don’t know how long.

Eventually it occurs to me that the car is not running, hasn’t been for some time. We’re parked.

“Stat?” I mumble into his hair.


“Where are we?”

He rolls off of me and onto the floor, a bloody mess. Grinning up at me he says, “I told the driver not to disturb us when we got there, to just park the limo in the garage and leave us be.”

I look out the window and sure enough, we’re in some sort of garage. Large, but still obviously that of a private residence. Lestat’s house, wherever that might be.

“Shall we clean up and go inside?”

“Clean up?” he sticks out his lower lip and pouts prettily.

“Yes, clean up. Lestat, the seat, among other things, is covered in blood. You can’t just leave it like this.” His lip gets farther and farther out as I speak until it’s absolutely ridiculous and I start to giggle. Then I think about the fact that I’m sitting in a blood-spattered limousine, wearing nothing but a bloody t-shirt and I start laughing so hard tears are streaming down my cheeks.

Only with Lestat would I ever find myself in such a situation.

“Monsieur le Rock Star can’t be bothered with such menial tasks?” I tease.

He lies back on the floor and props his feet up on my lap. Hands behind his head, muscles pulling and contracting over his ribs as he shifts position slightly. Just smiling.

My fingers move of their own accord, tracing swirling patterns on his ankles and the tops of his feet. Still feeling slightly lazy. Lethargic. I don’t want to clean up, either.

Stay in here forever, where nothing can touch us.

But the practical side of me wins out. Of course it does. I don’t know exactly what time it is, but the dawn will come eventually and we can’t be here in the car when it does.

I lift his legs off my lap, kissing his toes as I do so, and slide off the seat. He looks at me questioningly but makes no move to get up. I put my jeans back on and he makes a disappointed noise in the back of his throat.

There’s a miniature bar across from the seat, and a small refrigerator as well. No towels, but there is a stack of napkins. That will have to do. I take a bottle of some sort of liquor and, wetting the napkin, start scrubbing the seat. It doesn’t do a lot of good.

“It’s black, Louis, mortals won’t even be able to see the stains. Don’t worry about it.” Well, at least the alcohol will mask the smell of blood. I sigh and pour the rest out onto the seat, tossing the empty bottle and the napkins into the wastebasket.

Lestat still hasn’t moved.

“Hadn’t we better go inside?” I ask.

“I suppose.”

“That would require you getting up.”

That gets me nothing but a slow, lazy smile. My chest tightens up and when I finally find my voice, I say, “I would rather spend these last couple of hours in bed…”

He perks at that, like a cat.

I get out of the car and wait for him to follow. Looking around, I see that in addition to the limousine there are several sports cars and a motorcycle. I knew Lestat would like cars. Not at first, when they were slow and clumsy, but when they started manufacturing these faster models, I thought of him. He’s always loved riding; it makes sense that he would love driving just as much.

I look over at him as he steps out of the car. He’s only half-heartedly gotten dressed, his shirt and shoes still in the car and his pants unzipped.

It suddenly seems impossible that I’m here and he’s here. I want to touch him to make sure he’s real, but I’m afraid that if I reach out my hand will go right through him and I’ll wake up back in my apartment. I can’t bear the thought of losing him again.

He pulls me to him, his hand on the back of my neck, and kisses me, sweetly at first and then more demanding. In between kisses, he murmurs, “My God, Louis…what you do to me.”

Breathless and shaking, we head for the door which, I assume, leads into the house. I don’t pay any attention to the rooms we pass through until we finally reach his ‘lair’ as he’s termed it, a huge master bedroom with a bathtub that looks to be as big as my whole apartment. He closes the door, which is equipped with several deadbolts and an electronic lock of some sort as well.

I step out of my shoes and pull my shirt over my head, watching him as he watches me undress. The eyes of a predator. I wriggle out of my jeans and sit back on the bed, beckoning him to join me, which he does, shedding his pants on the way.

In my arms he feels so right and I wish this is how it could always be. I lick his chest, his sides, his belly, every inch of him. Dried blood and fresh sweat. He tastes exactly the same as I remember, unchanged after a century apart.

Then he’s pushing me back onto the pillows, pushing my legs apart, taking my aching cock deep into his mouth. Sucking and scraping, swallowing pre-come and the droplets of blood from tiny fang wounds. The feel of his hands roaming my body is as soft and smooth as the satin of the sheets beneath me.

He brings his fingers to my mouth, drawing his index finger across one of my fangs. His blood is hot and thick and somehow tastes distinctly like Lestat. Indescribable. I suck at the wound, not letting it close, mimicking the movements of his mouth on my cock and he moans, a rich, low sound of pure pleasure. The vibrations in his throat are enough to bring me to climax, leaving me limp and gasping for breath when he finally removes his mouth.

I slice his finger one more time and roll over on my belly, raising myself up on wobbly knees. His fingers push inside me, coating me with his blood. They are soon replaced by his cock and he moves inside me slowly, so slowly I think I’m going to die. The blinding ecstasy of being filled by him. The dull, pleasant ache of sore muscles and forming bruises. The soft sound of his voice in my ear.

When he comes we both collapse on the bed and I pull the blanket over us as we fall into the death sleep.

Read the sequel: Riding in Cars with Boys.