Say you love me

Part 1

April 1968, Some small town in God knows Where, USA:
The small public venue was overly crowded, a rarity for Christine's band Chicken Shack. The crowd was mostly a bunch of rowdy teens, who all had one thing in common: they were loud, greasy and foul-mouthed. They were also here not to see Chicken Shack, but to see Fleetwood Mac, the band Christine and her group were opening up for.
Christine was a fan of Fleetwood, she actually had a few of their albums, and she was certainly taken with the bassist, John Mcvie. They didn't speak much, but she'd watched him tune his bass every night just before he went on stage, and was in awe of his rough looking hands. She'd always considered herself quite a prude, but in those moments she thought of quite a few places where John could put his hands.
Now, on stage, things weren't going smoothly. The first song on the set list was "It's okay with me baby", and the teens didn't like it. The band quickly changed to "American Pie", hoping to calm them down with a cover of a more popular tune. It had worked, and Christine was currently singing the chorus, "So bye-bye, Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was--" Her words were cut off as an empty brown bottle hit her piano and shattered, sending small bits of glass into her face. Whoever had thrown the bottle screamed from the back, "You fuckin' suck! Bitches like you can't play rock n roll! We want Fleetwood Mac!". Christine immediately stopped singing, stood up from her piano, and got her little English ass out of there for all she was worth. She'd be damned if she'd risk her life to play in a shitty venue in a shitty band for a shitty crowd. She had only gotten halfway through the backstage entrance when she bumped into a man, John Mcvie in particular. She looked into his eyes and found worry, and before she knew it her face was being cradled by his rough, gentle hands. "Oh my god Christine!" John said in his unmistakable English accent similar to Christine's
"You've got glass in your face!" Christine was in shock from his gentle touch, she could feel her body burning and managed to choke out,
"Yeah, some heckler threw it at my piano! I'm not going back out there, you can bet your sorry English ass on that!"
"I don't expect you to." Now Johns hands were brushing the hair away from her forehead to assess the damage of the glass. Even though he wasn't doing it as a romantic gesture, Christine wished so badly he was. To have him brush her hair from her face, look into her blue eyes with his lovely brown ones, take her in his arms and...
John's voice immediately snapped her back to reality.
"Let me take you back to my dressing room, I've got some tweezers to take the glass out." Christine numbly let herself be led back to the dressing room, a tiny room with a small beaten, brown couch, a table, and at rack of clothes, presumably Johns.
"Just sit down here, love." John led Christine to the couch and gently sat her down on it. He turned away from her and rummaged through his toiletry bag for a pair of tweezers. Once he found them, he also went to the small refrigerator in the corner and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Christine was confused: What was the whiskey for? Was this part of some grand scheme of seduction?
John must've seen her confused stare, as he quickly explained, "It's to sanitize the tweezers. It might sting a bit." He opened the whiskey bottle, sending its sour fumes to smell up the room. Christine was disgusted,because for the love of God, how could anybody in their right mind drink that stuff? It smelled like musty urine and tasted even worse, not to mention the hangover you got the next morning. She herself personally preferred Blue Nun wine, it tasted better than whiskey and the hangover was not as bad. Once the tweezers were dipped in the alcohol, John kneeled down to face Christine on the couch and asked her to open her knees a bit so he could better reach. Christine parted her knees slightly, as she was wearing a skirt and didn't want John to see her frilly pink knickers, and leaned forward enough to let him pluck out the glass embedded in her forehead and cheeks.
Plink plink plink went the glass as it hit the floor. The silence was deafening. Neither one of them knew what to say to break it, maybe they didn't even want to. Christine felt she should at least finally say something, she cleared her throat and managed, "This is really very kind of you. I just hope I don't make you miss your gig!"
"Oh, to bloody hell with the gig! As soon as I'm done with this I should go find the bastard who threw the bottle and kick his ass. I can't believe he had the balls to do that to a lady!" Christine stifled a giggle.
"Oh, I'm hardly a lady, John. If you got to know me you'd know that!" John leaned back from her face and grinned, then made a joking grab at the hem of her skirt,
"Really! Well I guess a peek under your skirt will confirm it!" Laughing, Christine swatted his hand away. John sobered up, trying to look serious as he said, "Here, let me finish cleaning up your face." He plucked the last few pieces of glass out, sanitized her cheeks and forehead with a little Jack (which burned like hell), and put the tweezers back.
Well, Christine's face certainly felt better,though it smelled of whiskey, but this situation was doing nothing in terms of her lust; it was right there in front of her, just as John was at this very moment, kneeling down so both their faces were on level with each others.
"Musician and doctor," Christine mused, trying to calm her pounding heart. "Lucky I found you when I did, John."
"I feel the exact same way."
John looked as nervous as Christine felt, his hands couldn't keep still. They fidgeted and shook slightly. What did John have to be afraid of? Her? Christine smiled as she took his hands in both of hers and tried to warm them.
"Your hands are so cold," she said, trying to sound confident.
"It's not cold in here."
Just as she'd imagined, Johns hands were rough, calloused. The backs of his hands were scarred, his fingers nimble and had large callouses from years of playing bass. They felt just as good as Christine imagined, better even. John was enjoying her touch, it was obvious in how he reacted; he had closed his eyes and was lightly smiling to himself. What was he thinking? If only Christine knew.
Changing her mind, before she knew what she was doing, Christine took Johns left hand and pressed it up against her cheek, which was a bit sore. She loved his hands on her, it felt so right. But he didn't love her, she was smart enough to know that.
John apparently loved having his hands on Christine, because both of his hands were now holding her face. Neither of them said a word, only looked into each others eyes. Christine put her hands on Johns back, pushing him closer to her, their faces coming nearer. Christines breathing quickened, she wanted him so badly her body ached. Not just sex, but to love and really know him, even if just for one night.
"Christine," John whispered her name softly. "I--" Bang bang bang! Someone was angrily pounding on the door. "John for God's sake get the fuck out here! We're about to go onstage!" It was Mick Fleetwood, the drummer and namesake of Fleetwood Mac. John said nothing. Bang bang bang! The pounding became worse. Swearing to himself, Mick angrily threw the door open and charged in like a bull, suddenly stopping when he found John and Christine in each others arms. He shook his head and said, "Jesus Christ, John! We're about to go on stage and you're trying to get laid!?"
Neither John nor Christine could find the right words to respond with. They could only disentangle themselves from each other without a word. John followed Mick out to the stage, glancing at Christine with an apologetic look. Christine was left sitting on the beaten, worn brown couch in the dressing room, wondering just what had gone on between them.