“Your panties are still in my pocket,” he says, helping her into the other pump and sidling me a smug glance.
If I didn’t despise him before, I do now. A primal urge to break his face rises up. I step next to him and snarl, “She doesn’t need any more drugs in her system, motherfucker.”
He glares at me. “Just because you got her off, you’re suddenly an expert on her?”
My temples pound and my throat tightens. I’ve sacrificed my soul for music under the pretense of loving it too much to abandon it. The no fighting rule that’s imposed on me marches through my head a moment before my fist connects with his jaw. Satisfaction burns into me as he sails back, landing a few feet away, on his ass.
When I step toward him again, she blocks me, her eyes frantic. “No. Don’t do this. You’re working really hard to get your band back together and it’s happening. Don’t destroy it with a fight.”
At her words, an unwelcome knot pulses through my gut and humiliation burns into me. My entire body clenches and she notices. She places her fingers on my arm. To settle me? Whatever her reasoning unnerves me. Unsure, I raise her hand to kiss the back of it. I don’t want her to look at me and see…me. The thought is the definition of insanity.
She’s a fan, so, of course, she’ll know some of the band’s stipulations.
“Phoenicians always rise,” she goes on, referring to the moniker attached to the band’s fans. “You’re our leader. We can’t survive without you. One more infraction and you’re out of the band. I know that Phoenix Rising is your life. I’m an expert on you.”
Doubtful. Some secrets are vaulted away.
Once again, I take her face between my hands, happy that I’ve found another reason to do so, and brush my lips over hers, ignoring the furious protest of dickhead. He’s lucky she stopped me from kicking him in the fucking face. Perhaps, he senses the dominant male—me—and doesn’t act any stupider. His girl smells and tastes like me. Let him choke on the remnants of my cum.
She leans into me, and more satisfaction than necessary parks inside of me, firing an unusual sense of possession within me.
Maybe, she isn’t his girl and, instead, he’s just her drug supplier. It’s fucked up, but I can’t decide which role is worse. Her full attention is on me. I kiss her deeper, allowing her to take in our combined tastes. She’s so eager, clinging to me like I’m her lifeline. Her soft whimper guns straight to my heads—both.
“Tell him to give me the fucking coke.”
Hooking a finger inside my mesh T-shirt, she shakes her head. She really likes touching me. If I did relationships, I’d get her number. Give the paparazzi another reason to chase me and attempt to pick apart my actions. They’ve supposedly pegged my type. What would they say if I introduced her as my lover? Young and dark-haired. I can’t think of a better way to fuck with them.
“You aren’t an addict anymore.” Her voice breaks into my contemplations. “You’ve been clean since you demolished the record company’s studio and you’re halfway through the American leg of your tour. You’re not messing that up. I won’t allow it.”
Her defiance makes me laugh, although my heart hammers. While I consider using her for my amusement, her concern for me is genuine. “It isn’t for me. It’s for a special friend.”
“That porn star you’re dating?”
Fuck, she really does follow my life closely. “I’ve never dated one porn star.” Although I fucked several on the plane ride to Houston. “I want the fucking baggie. Now.”
Again, she denies me with a shake of her head. I suspect she’s used to getting her way. Is it because she’s spoiled or ignored, I don’t know. I do know what she needs, though. Discipline. Structure. Focus. At one time, I found it in my music. Lately, not even music has been enough to subdue my restiveness.
Asshole steps beside her. “Powder belongs to me,” he says tightly, a handkerchief pressed to his bleeding nose, his eye already swelling. “It’s my decision who gets it or not and I’ve chosen her.”
Cursing, I dig in my back pocket and offer him all the hundreds I have.
“Sloane, please.” Her tortured whisper will haunt me. The care and concern infused in it is more than I get from anyone. “Do you swear it isn’t for you?”
I nod and, as quickly as I came upon her, she leaves. Just like that. A delicate star brightening my life one moment and an elusive angel floating forever away the next.
Long minutes later, I sit with the coke, fighting the urge to do a line. My hands actually shake.
“Sloane, please…”
Her plea bounces in my head and her scent remains on my fingers, my lips, and in my mouth. For her, the sad, little temptress, I find the nearest bathroom and flush the blow. Then, I splash water on my face. It isn’t cold at all, so it doesn’t give my system the shock it needs to snap back from my encounter with her.
I regret not forcing the issue about her name. All it took was one look from me to get my dick into her mouth. I’m sure one, cold command for her name would’ve produced results, too. Maybe, I didn’t want to know it. A name is so personal. This way, our sex remained simple and unencumbered with expectations.
She said I’d forget her name, so she never bothered to offer it to me. But, she’s a younger, softer, feminine version of me. For the rest of my life, I’ll remember the unidentified waif with the gorgeous purple eyes.
Chapter Two
Cassandra
Old. That’s how I see myself because that’s how the world sees me. Old. Should dress in respectably-lengthened skirts, slacks, button-down blouses. Nothing too colorful. Nothing too short.
At thirty, wedges already replace your party shoes. At thirty-five, flats replace those wedges. And, those like me? My age? I should find canvas sneakers.
On edge, I pad to my mirrored walk-in closet and I’m hit with images of myself from all directions. My white-blond hair is still long, thanks to my defiantly choosing not to cut it as befitting a forty-five-year-old mother of two. The shade hides the gray that began to grow in the day after I hit thirty. Gray hair laid in wait for that milestone and didn’t have the patience to withhold any longer than twenty-four hours after my birthday, before it made its presence known. Now, my color gives me a glimpse of how I may look when I tire of dyeing my hair.
My reflection captures the intense scowl on my face. The day I tire of coloring my hair is the day the casket is closed on me.
It’s getting close to the time my husband arrives. Close to the time for the sex I’ve anticipated since he offered it to me yesterday, after our original bed partner—a man older than Parnell—backed out.
I’m scared, though. Will I act like a forty-five-year old? Will I look like one to him? My husband’s bringing home the youngest man ever for our fun and games.
I walk to the window and open the blinds, not caring that late afternoon is sliding into early evening. Shifting shadows gives me an advantage. Right beneath my window, groundskeepers weed and fertilize a garden. Sunlight frames me, bouncing off my nude body. One of them smirks at me. I return the favor, a queen caught in her tower, appreciating the gift of growing older, but hating, despising, the way the world views age. Especially a woman’s age.
“Mom?”
I snap the blinds shut at Georgie’s call and rush to grab a silk robe. “Come in, love.”
She peeks her dark head in, still waiting for me to signal her all the way into my sanctuary. My closet comforts me. My clothes. My shoe collection. My array of vibrators hidden beneath the bar also installed in here.
“Come in,” I urge her with a wave and a smile.
Relief settles into Georgie’s amethyst-colored eyes. She’s wearing gym shorts and a t-shirt, both with the emblem of the Catholic school she attends, where her grades are abysmal. Her black hair—styled in a ponytail—is swinging, almost matching the sway of her hips. I stare at her, remembering myself at her age. Filled with hope of a great love and the promise of the world at my feet. I wish for a do ov
er. I’ve made too many mistakes to count. Slept with too many men to be proud of.
Georgie stares back at me, squirming on her feet, a girl fighting to become a woman, a woman too old to be a little girl.
I find my couch and perch on the edge, waiting for my daughter to speak. “Crowell has two tickets to the Phoenix Rising concert.” She raises her chin and I cringe inside at her battle stance. Her look of defiance. She’s my daughter. I know what I did to my mother when I was her age. Although my mother keeps control of everyone around her, Georgie is my karma for the sins of my youth. I’m being repaid. “I’d like to go,” she adds.
I eye her. Crowell is my son’s—Georgie’s older brother’s—best friend. He’ll take care of her, even though he’s also a man-whore and would overlook Georgie’s age for anything she wants to do. I heave in a breath and wave my hand, not having the time to concern myself with a concert, Crowell, or my daughter. I say what any good mother would, although my statement is a stalling tactic. “Let me talk to your father.”
“The concert’s tomorrow night.”
I grit my teeth in frustration and irritation at her determination to push the issue. The impatience of youth! We both know if I agree to something like this, then her father will capitulate. He cut the apron strings months ago. Before or after I left Georgie to her own devices? She’s sixteen. The thought of directing her decisions for another two years is an unbearable burden.
Georgie will never learn to fight her own battles if we always step in for her. It’s now that she needs to learn the difference between wise and stupid choices. By the time she’s twenty, she will have honed her instincts and decision-making skills. She doesn’t need me micro-managing her life, although, sometimes I wish to be like Mother.
Pausing, I scoff. Sometimes. Despite her preference for Georgie, Mother will never abandon me. To a default, Helen Sanderson backs me up, protects me, and defends me.
I lack that maternal gene. With my son, it’s so easy to care. Rubbing my temples, I decide I lack the gene to mother a girl.
Honestly, my attitude towards my daughter mirrored Mother’s with me. I would’ve done anything for Georgie. Now, I’m trying to save my marriage. Parnell’s obsessed with spicing up our sex life, by inviting others into our bed. Mostly, younger women. His attitude has me fixated on youth. As the days pass, I’m increasingly paranoid and desperate. So, no. I have no time to raise Georgie. Besides, she needs confidence in herself. To do that, she needs self-reliance.
She sniffs in agitation. “Well?”
The time glares at me from the wall clock. Parnell will soon arrive with our new bed partner. Monday will be his turn to have a female lover with us. The women he chooses are younger and younger each time. It’s getting harder for me to participate.
“Mom!” Georgie snaps.
My husband’s demands are my main concern and my age my greatest distraction. A treat for Georgie will sidetrack her need of my attention.
“Fine,” I say, promising myself I will set aside Mom time with Georgie. I cock my head to the side, wondering if she’s as lonely as I am. If she’s searching for happiness while trapped behind our gorgeous, gilded walls. “Go. But—“
My voice trails for better impact. She knows this and rolls her eyes.
I make a snap decision to not even run this by Parnell. What he doesn’t know, won’t aggravate him. He doesn’t like Crowell. Although he’s capitulated to my demand to let Georgie spend her time with Crowell, Parnell doesn’t trust the young man. “Do. Not. Tell. Your. Dad.”
She smiles, a spark of humor in her eyes, and comes to me. Raising her fist, she bumps it against mine when I do the same. “Girl power,” she chants.
I nod with pride. I taught her that. “Girl power.”
Georgiana
My body slams onto the floor in Dad’s study and I grab onto my shoulder, grunting at the sharp pain. My fingers hurt really bad, though I can’t remember why. Kicking off my stilettos, I crawl to my knees and sway. Closing the window should be a priority but it seems too far away. Hot, humid, Houston weather blows into the room. Midnight and it has to be eighty degrees.
“George?” Crowell calls from outside. “You in? I need to leave before Josh comes and sees my car.”
“Go,” I urge in a loud whisper.
The very last thing I need is my big brother discovering his friend and I are quasi-lovers, sometimes druggies, and all around alcoholics. Joshua would kill Crowell. Plain and simple. Beneath the designer suits and million-dollar looks is a dirty fighter. I don’t know how Josh became so adept with his fists, but he fights like he’s from the streets.
“George, you okay?” Crowell says in a low tone, instead of taking my advice and getting the hell out.
Off-balance, I stumble to the window and lean out, a silly grin on my face. The coolness of the wood floor soothes my overheated feet. I curl my toes in bliss.
“George?”
Crowell spends so much time with me, even talking me out of my scheduled suicide attempt a few weeks ago. Since then, our friendship has changed and he’s picked me up from school every day.
The heat nauseates me. “I’m fine.” I poke my tongue at him, breathe in his cologne and my scent. My smell still clings to his fingers and mouth. On the way home, I washed away his taste with a mini bottle of whipped cream flavored vodka.
Guilt plagues me. Part of my attraction to him is his resemblance to my idol, Sloane Mason, especially now with his brown hair so unkempt. I dare not mention Sloane. Crowell will only scream at me again as he did the entire way home, last night, after he dragged me away from Sloane.
It wasn’t until I went over the dreamy night that I remembered he hit Crowell. Another event where reason is lost to me.
More regret surges through me at being so out of it during my lovemaking with Sloane. At first, he treated me as I acted, like any one of his legions offering him free pussy. By the end, though, an unforgettable connection had been forged between us.
Not that it matters to him. Bond or not, he’s still a figment of my adoration. I know him but I don’t really know him. Crowell is a real, flesh-and-blood man. The only person who’s willing to look after me. “Are you okay?”
“God, Josh is going to castrate me if he finds out about our oral sex sessions.”
I frown at Crowell’s proper terminology, but don’t comment. He’s nervous and still annoyed with me about last night. “We’ve done it four or five times already,” I remind him. The first time was on my sixteenth birthday when Mom gave me two bottles of Cristal and had my own personal shopper assigned to me.
Dad gave me diamonds and a car. I’m supposed to have someone with me whenever I drive until I’m seventeen, but, that’s like four months away. My parents break the rules and mostly look the other way when Josh does it.
Why can’t I? It isn’t as if they care one way or the other.
“We can’t do this shit anymore.” Crowell’s guilty voice matches his expression. Lamp light reflects in the gleaming blue of his eyes. He runs a hand over his hair that my fingers destroyed. “I got completely naked this time, George.”
“I’ve gotten completely naked every time,” I snap at him.
He glares at me, the reflection from the outside lamps and beaming from the spotlights situated in the grass, blends with the soft light behind me and turns him devil-like. “My di…penis was too close to your… vag—“
I huff in exasperation. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I whisper-screech. “Since when did your dick become a penis? Not in all the years I’ve known you.”
“Well, it is now,” he says tightly. “I can get fucking arrested.”
“I’d never tell,” I swear in truth. Why would I…?
“I have a girlfriend, Georgiana.”
My heart stops. Drops. Then starts a fast, frantic rhythm. I realize this news isn’t shocking. And that hurts a little more. I saw his girlfriend the other day at the barbeque place Crowell took me for dinner after school
. Fake D-cup boobs, fake blonde hair, fake pouty lips. Just fucking fake. She came to the table and studied me long and hard. Crowell’s mouth twisted in a sucked-on-lemon expression as he introduced her to me. I hadn’t understood.
Now, I do.
Tears rush to my eyes. I’m sobering up. His announcement has killed the buzz of the alcohol, weed, coke and orgasm. I’ve already lost dad’s oldest son, and my half-brother, Cash, to his biker lifestyle. “I’m losing you, too?”
He groans, reminding me how he sounds when he’s coming in my mouth. That other, older girls know, too. I hate being sixteen. I’m caught between childhood and womanhood and it sucks.
I wish I was my mom’s age. She’s so gorgeous. So settled with her life. I ponder how that feels. Mom does so much good for so many people, but she doesn’t have a lot of time for me, anymore. Lately, Dad only has time for Mom or Josh. Josh only has time for work and women.
I only had Crowell. Now, he’s being taken away, too.
“If it’s about last night, I’m sorry.”
He stiffens. I know what transpired last night—as much as his girlfriend—is the problem.
“Nothing happened,” I lie again, as much to keep Sloane out of trouble as it is to grasp at a desperate straw so Crowell won’t leave me.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” He borrows my phrase of outrage. “His scent was all over you.”
Unable to refute that, I mumble, “He thought I was eighteen.”
Crowell’s ugly scowl makes me step back. Sometimes, even when his face isn’t bruised and swollen, he frightens me. With the added split lip, cut cheek, and swollen, purple eye, I consider fleeing without finishing the conversation.
He grips my arm. “According to the ID I provided to you, you were eighteen.”
It’s a grudging admission in a very Crowell-way that he’d be in trouble if any of my activities from the previous night were discovered. Not only had he provided me the means to get into the party, but I’d been waiting in that room to do to Crowell what I’d ended up doing with Sloane.
Phoenix Rising Rock Band: The Series Page 3