aFireFist
A Life in Hollywood
Chapter 21 - Taylor Swift, Emillia Clarke, Scarlett Johansson, Elizabeth Olsen & Jennifer Lawrence {The Last Night of the 1989 Tour} - Part 2
The utility corridor behind the LED wall was dark except for one work light at the far end. Cases stacked on both sides. The thump of the intro to the next number was already bleeding through the wall, bass first.
"We don't have time," he said.
"I know." Her voice was low and wrecked from singing and from whatever she'd been thinking about since the calf work. She shoved him back against a road case, dropped to her knees on the concrete, and had his belt open before he'd finished looking down the hall.
No preamble. She yanked his cock out, already half-hard from the way she'd grabbed him, and took him into her mouth in one wet slide. Warm, tight, no teasing. Her lips stretched around the thick head and kept going until her nose pressed into his stomach.
"Fuck—"
She hummed around him, a filthy little sound, and stayed there. Throat working. Spit already running down to his balls. The sparkle still caught on her sleeves. Sweat ran down the line of her spine into the waist of the costume. The headset around his neck bumped her hair.
Taylor pulled off just long enough to suck a breath and wrap her hand around the base.
"Don't talk," she whispered, voice raw. "Just use my throat. I've got forty seconds and I want you to dump it in my stomach before I have to smile at thousands of people."
She went back down. Deeper. Her tongue flattened along the underside as she took him to the root again. Wet, loud, sloppy. The kind of suck that didn't care about pretty. Her cheeks hollowed. Her eyes watered and stayed open, looking up at him, mascara starting to smudge. One hand braced on his thigh. The other cupped his balls and squeezed in time with the bob of her head.
Osiah's hand found the back of her head. Not shoving. Holding. Her blonde hair was damp and tangled around his fingers. She gagged once, recovered, and took him deeper anyway, throat fluttering around the head of his cock.
"That's it," he muttered. "Take it. Fucking take it."
She moaned around him. The vibration ran straight up his spine. Spit dripped off her chin onto the concrete. The smell in the corridor was her stage makeup, his work shirt, hot dust, and the sharp clean scent of her sweat. Distant, the crowd was already screaming for the next song.
Taylor's head moved faster. Wet suction, throat sounds, the soft ugly noise of her trying to keep him all the way in. Her tits strained the costume when she breathed through her nose, full and pushed up, nipples hard under the fabric. She squeezed her own thighs together like she could get off just from this.
"I'm close," he said.
She didn't pull off. She grabbed his ass with both hands and yanked him forward, burying her face against him, throat opening. That was the end of it. Osiah's hips jerked. He came hard down her throat in thick pulses, one after another, cock twitching against her tongue. Taylor swallowed around him, greedy and messy, a little of it escaping the corner of her mouth and running down her chin. She kept him there until he was done, throat working to take every drop, eyes wet, lips swollen red.
Only then did she pull off, gasping. A string of spit and cum connected her bottom lip to the head of his cock for a second before it broke.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, looked at her phone screen like a mirror, checked her teeth, and stood up on shaky legs.
"Good," she said, still breathing hard. "That'll hold me."
Osiah tucked himself back in, belt still half-undone. "You've got a song."
"I know." She straightened the costume, smeared the smear of cum at the corner of her mouth away with her thumb, and sucked the thumb clean without looking embarrassed about it. "Don't watch me walk away like that. It's distracting."
She was already moving. The next number's intro hit full. Taylor stepped back into the light like the last four minutes had been a water break.
Osiah stood in the dark corridor for another five seconds, headset crooked, the taste of the whole thing still sitting in the air, then went back to work.
The rest of the set didn't skip a cue.
The third Shanghai show did not get a repeat of the corridor.
Taylor came off after "Style" looking at him like she was thinking about it, mouth still shiny from the bottle she'd just drained, sweat running down her throat into the costume. Osiah shook his head once. She rolled her eyes, mouthed fine, and let wardrobe drag her into the next change. That was the whole negotiation. The set finished clean. The roof truss sang on the pyro the same way it had the night before. The crowd in the Mercedes-Benz Arena sounded like it was trying to lift the LED wall off the steel.
After the bow she found him near the monitor board with her jacket half on and her voice already going thin.
"Van," she said. "If I stand here I'm going to ask you to do something stupid again."
"Go," he said.
She went.
Load-out ran in the same thin drizzle as the night before. Cases slick. Labels peeling. Carrie from lighting walked a rack past him and said, "Two more countries. Then we all pretend we know how to sit still."
"You first," Osiah said.
"Not a chance."
They cleared the building at 2:20 a.m. Osiah slept on the bus for three hours and woke up somewhere over water with a stiff neck and a text from Taylor that just said Australia. Don't miss the plane.
He didn't.
***
Sydney hit like a different sport.
ANZ Stadium was a bowl with a field in it, seventy-six thousand people, and enough open air that the indoor tightness of Singapore and Shanghai felt like a memory. Jet lag sat behind Osiah's eyes the whole first afternoon. The local crew moved like they'd done rugby and soccer and concerts on the same dirt and didn't need a speech about it.
He spent load-in on the field-level barricade line with a local safety lead named Darren who wanted the front thrust marked again because the first tape job had walked overnight.
"Kids rush the first three rows here," Darren said. "They don't mean anything by it. They just forget there's a person on the other side of the fence."
"We'll double the ushers on Love Story," Osiah said. "That's when they lean."
Darren nodded like that was the right answer and went to find more ushers.
Vance Joy's tour manager found him an hour later by the shared truck dock, a guy in a faded cap with a clipboard and the look of someone who had been awake since Brisbane.
"You're Morse?"
"Yeah."
"We need two extra bays tonight or we're stacking cases in the wet. Your carpenter said talk to you before I start a fight."
"Take three and four," Osiah said. "We'll live in five and six. If Mitch complains, tell him I said it."
The guy blinked, then laughed once. "Alright. Appreciate it."
That was the conversation. No handshake photos. No tour stories. Just space on a dock.
Soundcheck ran late because one of the delay towers was talking back. Osiah stood in the house with a belt pack and walked the problem until the echo died. Taylor did "This Love" half-voice from the B-stage, one hand on the mic, the other shielding her eyes from the sun that was still too high. She looked for him in the seats, found him, and kept singing.
Night of, he stayed on the barricade for "Love Story."
The 1989 version of it still had the shape of the old song, just dressed different. Taylor in the short dress, hair moving, the whole stadium coming up in phone lights like the field had grown a second sky. The front row did exactly what Darren said they would. They leaned. Ushers held. Nobody went over. Osiah kept one eye on the fence and one on her feet so he could call it if she overshot the downstage mark.
She didn't.
After "Out of the Woods" she came off stage left instead of going straight to the next change. The crossover was dark except for the glow leaking off the LED. She was dripping. Sparkle on her cheekbones, sweat down her chest, the pack clip dark against her back. She walked into him, forehead against his collarbone, both hands fisted in the front of his shirt, and stayed there.
Thirty seconds. Maybe thirty-five.
No talking. Her breathing evened out against him. His shirt went damp where she was pressed. Somebody down the hall yelled for wardrobe. Taylor made a small sound that wasn't a word, pushed off, and went.
Osiah stood there long enough to fix his headset and get back on comms.
The rest of Sydney was work. Shake It Off on a spinning runway in a stadium that big felt like the floor might actually leave. It didn't. Confetti went everywhere the wind wanted it to go. Erica found him after the bow with the legal pad again.
"Barricade held," she said. "Tell Darren thank you. And tell Taylor if she keeps coming off between numbers she's going to miss a change."
"She knows."
"She knows and she does it anyway. That's why I tell you."
He told Darren. Darren said, "She's alright, that one," and went back to pulling fence.
They rolled north.
***
Brisbane was a one-night stadium after a travel day that ate everyone.
Suncorp had that same open-air heat, just smaller than Sydney, the kind of room that still felt like a field even when the seats went up. Load-in got compressed into a montage of the same problems in a new zip code: tape that wouldn't stick, a local electric who wanted the dimmer hotel moved two meters for a reason that made sense only to him, a dancer with a rolled ankle that Osiah wrapped in the physio tent before Taylor even knew about it.
"Don't tell her I rolled it," the dancer said.
"I'm telling her if you go out there and make it worse."
"Then I won't make it worse."
He didn't. The show went. Osiah watched "Blank Space" from the wings and "Shake It Off" from the truck ramp because that was where the smoke machine decided to die and someone had to kick it. After strike he slept sitting up against a case and woke up when the bus started moving toward Adelaide.
Adelaide Entertainment Centre was the last small room.
Someone on the crew had taped a piece of printer paper to the production office door in black marker.
LAST TWO CITIES
Nobody took it down.
The room held twenty thousand instead of seventy. You could see faces again, the way Taylor had liked in Singapore. Soundcheck was short. She ran "This Love" half-voice with the house lights still up, walking the lip of the stage in rehearsal shorts and an oversized button-down she'd stolen from wardrobe. Every so often she'd glance out into the seats like she was checking that he was still there. He was, third row on the aisle, headset around his neck, marking delay times on a wrinkled cue sheet.
After the first Adelaide show her voice had that scrape at the edges. Not gone. Just used.
Osiah made her tea in the back lounge of the main bus because the kettle in the dressing room had been packed already. She sat cross-legged on the bench in a hoodie and socks, blonde hair in a knot that was losing the fight, and held the cup in both hands.
"Don't look at me like that," she said.
"Like what."
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