Chapter 7: The Unimpressed Fan
The train station was a cathedral of noise and echoed goodbyes, but inside her head, there was only the sterile hum of the in-flight entertainment system, playing nothing. She’d scrubbed herself raw in a communal hostel shower, the water so hot it turned her skin pink. It didn’t help. The feeling of the convention stall, of being a blurred reflection in fogged glass, clung to her like a second skin.
Her phone, silenced, held fourteen unread messages from Thomas. The previews stacked up like guilty stones: “Just checking in…” “Hope you’re safe…” “I miss your laugh…” She deleted them without opening, one by one, until the screen was blank. The quiet he offered felt like a verdict now. A judgment on the noise she carried.
Another city. Another skyline. The buzz of an arena crowd was different from a convention hall—deeper, more tribal, a unified roar that vibrated in the concrete beneath her feet. She hadn’t bought a ticket. She stood at the back of the venue, near the emergency exits, watching the spectacle on stage with the detached focus of a bomb disposal expert.
Justin Bieber moved with a kinetic, practiced grace. The performance was flawless, a symphony of engineered highs. The crowd screamed every word back at him. Emery watched, arms crossed, her face a neutral mask. She felt nothing. Not awe, not annoyance. A perfect, hollow zero.
A security guard, all bullneck and black fabric, appeared beside her. “Come with me.” It wasn’t a request.
He marched her through a labyrinth of concrete corridors, past roadies coiling cables, the air growing thicker with the smell of sweat, weed, and stale beer. He stopped at an unmarked door, opened it, and gave her a slight shove inside.
The room was small, dominated by a stained leather couch and a vanity littered with makeup, half-empty bottles of amber liquor, and a faint haze of cigarette smoke. It smelled of expensive cologne overripe body and cheap tobacco.
Justin Bieber sat on the couch, a towel around his neck, his stage clothes damp with sweat. He was scrolling on his phone. He looked up. His eyes, a pale, piercing blue, scanned her from scuffed boots to crossed arms. A smirk touched his lips, lazy and knowing.
“You,” he said, his voice hoarse from the show. “Back left, near exit C. You looked like you were at a fuckin’ tax seminar.”
She didn’t uncross her arms. “It was a show.”
He barked a laugh, setting his phone aside. He stood and began to circle her slowly, a predator assessing. The energy coming off him was all taut wire and arrogance. “A show. Yeah. I just poured two hours of my life out there for twenty thousand people. And you,” he paused in front of her, too close, the heat from his body hitting her like a wall, “you stood there like a stone cold statue. ‘It was a show.’” He mimicked her tone, flat and unimpressed.
She shrugged, the motion deliberately slow. “It was okay.”
His smirk vanished. His jaw tightened. For a second, he looked like a petulant kid, before the calculated cool snapped back into place, harder now. “Okay. Right.” He nodded, his gaze dropping to her mouth, then lower. “I think you didn’t get the full experience. Maybe you need a private session.”
He moved fast. His hand shot out, fingers clamping around her wrist with a surprising strength. He yanked her forward, off balance, and shoved her down onto the couch. The leather was warm from his body, sticky. Before she could sit up, he was on his knees on the floor between her legs.
“Let me change your mind,” he muttered, his voice dropping to a gritty whisper.
His hands pushed her thighs apart. He grabbed the hem of her cotton panties, and with a sharp, ripping sound, tore them aside. The cold air of the room hit her exposed skin. He didn’t hesitate. He leaned in, his breath hot, and licked a long, slow, deliberate stripe from her opening to her clit.
She jerked, a shock going through her. Her hands flew to his hair, tangling in the damp strands, but she didn’t push him away. The numbness from the convention was still there, a protective shell, but this was different. This was an assault with intent. He wasn’t seeking conquest; he was demanding a reaction.
He sealed his mouth over her, sucking her clit between his lips, his tongue flicking against it with a rapid, insistent pressure. He groaned, the vibration traveling straight into her core. He ate her out with a desperate, angry hunger, his nose buried against her, his hands gripping her thighs to hold her wide open. His tongue dove inside her, then returned to circle her clit, rough and expert.
“Taste like you’re finally fucking impressed,” he grunted against her flesh, his words muffled.
Her body, traitorous and wired for sensation, began to respond. A treacherous heat coiled low in her belly, distinct from the chill in her mind. She could feel herself getting wet, slick for him, her hips giving a tiny, involuntary rock against his mouth. He felt it and doubled his efforts, sucking harder, fucking her with his tongue until the room filled with the raw, wet sounds of it.
“Yeah, that’s it,” he growled, pulling back for a second, his chin glistening. “Give it up. Come on my face. Do it.”
The command, the sheer audacity, snapped the last thread of her control. An orgasm tore through her, sharp and debilitating, wringing a choked cry from her throat. Her back arched off the couch, her thighs clamping around his head. He rode it out, his tongue relentless until she was shaking, spent.
He stood up, looking down at her with dark, victorious eyes. He unbuckled his pants, shoved them down just past his hips. His cock sprang out, fully hard, thick and curving slightly upwards. He gripped the base, stroking himself once as he looked at her splayed on the couch, her skirt bunched at her waist, her torn panties a frayed flag of surrender.
He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head nudging against her soaked flesh. He looked her dead in the eye, his expression stripped of all pretense, leaving only a stark, hungry need.
“Still think it was just ‘okay’?” he whispered.
He slammed into her.
There was no gentle penetration, no slow build. It was one deep, brutal, filling thrust that punched the air from her lungs. He was big, and the force of it bordered on pain. She cried out, her nails digging into the leather.
He didn’t wait for her to adjust. He set a punishing, driving rhythm, fucking her with hard, deep strokes that rocked her body up the couch. The frame squeaked and groaned in protest with every impact. He leaned over her, bracing one hand on the back of the couch, his sweat dripping onto her shirt.
“Fuck,” he gritted out, his eyes glazed, watching where their bodies joined. “You’re so fucking tight. Been a while since you got properly fucked, huh? Since someone made you feel it?”
Each word was a hammer on the shell around her. Thomas’s reverent touch, the YouTuber’s cold conquest—this was something else. This was raw, ego-driven ownership. He pistoned into her, his balls slapping against her ass. The sound was obscene, lewd, a metronome marking the ruin of the quiet she’d fled.
“Gonna make you scream my name,” he panted, his rhythm starting to fracture. “Gonna make you forget you ever called my show ‘okay,’ you smug bitch.”
He was losing himself, his thrusts becoming ragged, frantic. He hooked his hands under her knees, driving her legs back toward her shoulders, opening her impossibly wider, plunging even deeper. The new angle was devastating. A second, sharper climax began to build, not from pleasure, but from sheer overwhelming sensation.
“Justin—!” His name ripped from her, a surrender to the physics of it all.
It triggered him. With a guttural roar, he buried himself to the hilt and held, his whole body shuddering. She felt the hot, urgent pulses of his release filling her. He collapsed forward, his weight crushing her, his face buried in the couch by her head, his breath sawing in and out.
For a minute, there was only the sound of their breathing and the distant, muffled thunder of the exiting crowd.
He pushed himself up, pulled out of her. The air felt cold on her exposed skin. He tucked himself away, zipped his pants, and walked to the vanity. He picked up a bottle of water, cracked it open, and drank half in one go, not looking at her.
“Security’ll show you out the back,” he said, his voice back to its normal cadence, flat and drained. “Avoid the fans.”
She sat up slowly, every muscle feeling loose and used. She pulled her skirt down. The ruined underwear was useless; she left it on the floor. She stood, her legs unsteady.
He finally glanced at her in the mirror, his expression unreadable. “It was a good show,” he stated, as if correcting the record.
She didn’t answer. She walked to the door, opened it. The corridor was quieter now. As the door swung shut behind her, she heard the distinct vibration of a phone on a hard surface. It could have been his. It could have been hers, buried deep in her bag, another message from a quiet world trying to call her home.
She walked toward the looming security guard, the feel of Justin Bieber already drying on her inner thighs, another receipt for another transaction. The roar of the crowd was gone, replaced by a ringing, post-explosion silence. She knew, with a cold certainty, that it wouldn’t be enough. The numbness was still there, waiting. It would take more, always more, to make a dent in it.