Find a new body... at a Rock concert

t's dark. You're cold, shivering in an alley out the back of a concert. Out of respect for Trish's wishes, her mom was returned to normal, dazed and confused in her living room. Jimmy had been eager to play-act as Denise, offering to even have coffee and a chat with Alyson, but it was clear Trish wasn't going to let him out of your sight, and if you had stuck around, Trish would have had to have been herself: leaving you as Jessica. The very thought made you uncomfortable. She's your girlfriend, after all.

Instead you all headed off into town almost immediately: you, Mrs Hunt, and Jessica. As Jessica, Trish has already headed in to the packed concert venue with her ticket; the plan is for you to get her backstage somehow and meet up. Jimmy's promised to find a way inside for you, but you have no idea what that was supposed to mean. He left with the pen about fifteen minutes ago, disguised as Denise Hunt, and you've been hopping up and down outside, in the cold, wondering what he's planning. You wonder if he's bailed on you; it'd be like him to have found something else to occupy his time.

“All right, kid. Backstage passes only in the alley, move back to the queue.” In front of you is a hulk of a man: thick beard and scarred face, a walking roadblock in a black security uniform.

“Jimmy?” you ask, uncertain. This could be his idea of a joke. Instead, the guard scowls.

“What?” He's already moving forward now, shepherding you with his body.

“Uh... my friend Jimmy. I'm waiting for him.”

“Well I told you to wait somewhere else.” The guard is now shoving you, pushing you back toward the main street and entrance. He doesn't look annoyed at you, just disinterested.

“OK! OK! Just stop shoving, all right?” You begin to take a step back... only for the behemoth to burst into a grin you'd recognize anywhere.

“Got you, dude.”

“Jimmy! For... don't you know there are cameras around here?”

“Not where I got this guy,” he says, laughing a deep, resonating chuckle. “Nobody would have expected someone like Denise Hunt to be trying to sneak in, so when I explained I was lost, this guy volunteered to help. And he did. Now I'm the perfect Trojan Horse.”

“And what have you done with Mrs Hunt?” You ask. You still feel you aren't on first name terms with your girlfriend's mother, and you don't want to think Jimmy's just discarded her.

“Oh, relax. I'm wearing her underneath. Turns out you can wear more than one skin at once, like a Russian doll or something. Cool, huh?”

“Creepy, is the word I would use.”

“Whatever. Come on, shrimp,” Jimmy, as the guard, towers over you. “Let's get you backstage, huh?”

*****

You step into the backstage area. It's crowded, people moving about with purpose, making final checks. There are roadies talking to each other with mics, checking the pyrotechnics one last time, moving guitars to the side. In the wings there is a small gaggle of people – friends of the band – watching the warm-up act perform. Music echoes through the area; music and the sound of a crowd hungry for spectacular entertainment. The place reeks of beer, sweat and stale cigarettes. Jimmy continues to push you along, leading you through the narrow confines. You pass a large table laden with booze, fruit and candies: the band's rider, you guess. He stops at a whitewashed door with a star on it, and raps three times.

“Yeah?” The voice is a woman's, a strong Californian accent shining through. Jimmy opens the door, and leads you through.

The room is your standard dressing room, right down to the mirror with lightbulbs all around it. The table in front is filled with makeup and accessories, and along the walls is an extensive rack of clothes and outfits for the performance. Sat at the dresser, sipping what looks like herbal tea and honey, is possibly the most beautiful woman you've ever seen.

She's curvy, in a way that reminds you of Marilyn Monroe, with a round, immaculate face with full cheeks - she could be anywhere from 25 to 35. Her sensuous lips are tainted black by lipstick and long, black eyebrows curving suggestively above expressive eyes darkened by expertly applied shadow. Her jet black hair hangs back in a flowing mane, perfecting contrasting a porcelain complexion that leads down to extensive, ornate tattoos on her arms. Her amble breasts are accentuated by a risqué black corset, tied with purple lace,which threads down toward fishnet stockings that shape her majestic thighs. She smiles at you, and you feel your trousers begin to tent.

“Hey,” Riley Lovelace says, relaxed and friendly, setting her tea down as she waits for you to speak. “What's up, guys?”

“It's more about what's about to go down,” Jimmy laughs, shooting her with the black pen as he swings the door closed.

“Dude!” You hiss as quietly as you can as you watch the lead singer of Trish's favorite band deflate into little more than a costume.

“What? Don't you want to get into that skin? It's about time you got to be someone else after Trish spoiled your fun.”

You stride over to it, looking at the amazing face collapsed before you like a cheap Halloween mask, the exotic mass of long hair wildly drifting to the floor. Panic seizes you, not for the first time today. A cold mix of fear – at being caught and found out – and desire.

You do want to slip into that skin and watch as her toned thighs replace your own. You want to feel the pull of her breasts, the tug of her hair, the cold metal sensation of her ear studs. You want to be adored by everyone in this building, purely for being who you are. You want to be, for a while at least, Riley Lovelace, lead singer of Analytical Engine, one of the coolest people in the world. You want to feel the restriction of her corset and long black gloves. Looking at the costumes in the rack behind you - changes for encores you guess - few leave much to the imagination, and the only one that does is a PVC bodysuit. Even her normal clothes,a red tartan miniskirt and purposefully ripped shirt thrown into the corner with careless abandon, aren't exactly modest.

“Just one problem, dude.” You point out, folding your arms. “She hasn't gone on stage yet. How the hell am I supposed to front a band I know practically nothing about? Jess and Trish are the fangirls, not me. There's no point being Riley Lovelace if I can't sing a single one of her damn songs.”

The guard's face takes on a characteristically Jimmy smirk as he pulls out another pen – this time brown – and waves it in the air. “You know, dude, I think that's what this might be for...”