Indecent (The Cage Sessions Book 1)

by Skylar Cross

  Handsome in a masculine yet beautiful way. Always impeccably dressed in the latest fashions. Short hair with a carved part. Goatee. Sharp.

  "Annnnnn-ika!" he says as he barrels in with his bright green briefcase all a-smiling. "I'm so exciiiiiiiiii-ted! I've got news! Come in my office right now, bitch."

  "Coming, dickwad," I say with a smile. I love Steve.

  "Annika Annika Annika! We're about to go big! And when I say big I mean huge! And when I say huge I mean two feet long and throb-bing!"

  I sit down across from his desk in his cramped office. A framed Some Like It Hot poster hangs on the pastel wall behind Steve. Marilyn Monroe winks at me while Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon in drag look surprised.

  "I got us an interview with somebody huge," he says. "This is going to put us on the map. And girl, I want you to do it."

  Now I'm getting excited. Who?

  "Are you ready?" he says.

  "Yes, I'm goddamned ready. Tell me!"

  "Damien Cage."

  I feel a gash attack coming on. My skin tightens and my knees twitch. Fluids run free.

  "I'm sorry," I say, "I must need a hearing aid. I swear you just said Damien Cage."

  "I did!" says Steve with a little squeal.

  "Damien Cage. Frontman for Eon Sphinx. America's Top Voice judge. That Damien Cage?"

  "Yes, that Damien Cage."

  I'm in a full-on gash attack now. Almost shaking.

  "You don't mind if I masturbate right here, do you?" I say.

  "Only if I can join you, sis," he says.

  "Oh my God! I'm going to interview Damien Cage! Are you fucking serious?"

  "You're going to interview Damien Cage!"

  "My God, when?"

  "At two."

  "Two when? Two what?"

  "Two p.m."

  "Fuck no. Today? No, no no no. I have to go home and change. I can't let him see me in this."

  "You look hot in that. Perfect hipster chic. He'll like it."

  "No," I say, "I need something hotter."

  "Girl, you have no idea how hot you are. You would look hot in a flowered shirt and old man jeans after crawling out of a pile of donkey poop."

  "That's why you're sending me instead of giving it to Dale or taking it yourself, right? Because you think he'll open up more to me."

  "Honey, Damien Cage is the most heterosexual man on planet Earth. He will only talk to hot girls. He wouldn't even notice me if I was in the room naked with a spotlight on me. It's so unfair. So do your research, line up some questions, and get ready to interview Damien Cage. I know you'll rock it out like you always do."

  Research? Is he kidding? I have every Eon Sphinx song ever recorded on my mp3 player. In high school, I had a poster of Damien Cage and his naked chest on the wall of my room until my mom told me to take it down because she called it "filth." My best friend Isabella and I were in the tenth row at Dolphin Stadium in 2009 on their "Summer Kink" tour. At one point during the show, a droplet of Damien Cage's sweat landed on me. I almost came.

  Research? I don't need no stinkin' research.

  I get up from the chair, knees a little wobbly, and go to my desk. I take out an Ativan from my emergency pack and pop it with a swig of spring water. Might need another one before I go.

  I reach into my bag and pull out my chintzy cell phone. I go to Contacts and hit "Send" on Isabella.

  Isabella is my best friend from middle school on, recently returned to Miami after four years of college in Boston.

  "Is everything all right?" says Isabella with concern in her voice.

  "Yes," I say. "Better than alright."

  "You never call, girl. You always text. This has to be something either very good or very bad."

  "It's very good. Super good. Iz, you'll never believe who I'm being sent to interview today, as in this afternoon!"

  "Oh, is it that guy I was telling you about who owns that new club on the beach?"

  "No! Hotter! Better! Bigger!"

  "Huh? I can't imagine. Tell me!"

  "You might want to sit down for this. Ready? Damien. Cage."

  "No!"

  "Yes!"

  "Get the fuck out!"

  "Yes!"

  We both scream like we're still twelve.

  "Hey!" shouts Steve from his office.

  "Sorry," I say. "Better go, but I'll call you later with the deets."

  "Ohmigod ohmigod, yes, call me later!"

  I take a couple of deep breaths, trying to center myself. Om I repeat to myself several times.

  Then I sign into my computer but can't see the screen. All my emails are there but the words make no sense to me. All I can see is Damien Cage's face. And chest. And abs.

  Shit, I want to change. Let me go look at myself.

  I go to the ladies room we share with the private eye and the promotion company.

  I stand in front of the mirror and look at the twenty-two year old brunette with glasses staring back at me. Not bad, but I wish I had worn my contacts.

  I turn to my side.

  I hate the way my breasts look in this faux-punk T-shirt. I wish they were bigger, but I refuse to do implants. Well, at least I know Damien Cage is an ass man.

  I will admit my ass looks perky in my short denim skirt. That's good.

  But I wish I had worn my South Beach dress, put in some contacts, and threw on some fancy nails.

  I lean over the sink and stare into my eyes.

  "I can do this!" I say to my blue eyes in the mirror. "Yes I can!"

  I hear a toilet flush.

  Shit, I didn't know someone else is in here with me.

  The woman comes out of the stall and says "hi" while trying to suppress a laugh. I know her. She's the receptionist at the promotion company. Ashley, I think. Or is it Amber?

  "Hi", I say as I walk past her into the stall.

  Bitch.

  Chapter 3

  Damien Cage's mansion on Biscayne Bay is just the kind of place you would expect to be owned by a rock star.

  Spanish-style stucco with orange tile roof. Corinthian columns. Lots of expensive white stone leading down to the water. A giant sunken pool in front of a courtyard. A yacht moored at a grass-covered dock.

  And, of course, several bikini-clad girls bouncing around in the pool. I think they're attempting some sort of game.

  Or not.

  There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. Lots of jumping, hitting the ball, and screaming. They remind me of dolphins for some reason. Sorry, no, that's unfair to dolphins.

  I sit there on the wide patio, second Ativan infusing through my bloodstream, enjoying the hot breeze. Dramatic sky over Key Biscayne.

  Enter Damien Cage.

  He walks right out of the house wearing nothing but a pair of black shorts, big pink drink in hand.

  Cue pussy.

  I'm not even going to try to control her. I mean, this is Damien Fucking Cage! If she drips all over his outdoor furniture, it serves him right for being a god among mortals.

  He had to be fucking shirtless, didn't he?

  His chest thumps outward with shiny pectoral muscles. His left shoulder has a tribal tattoo, very detailed and yummy. My sphincter clenches.

  The shorts are loose, but I swear he's hard because I see a pointy bulge. God, I bet he's ready 24/7! With his life, how could he not be?

  His waist is trim with the most glorious six-pack I've ever seen. I know those abs well, having licked the ones on my wall poster as a teenager.

  He pauses, saying something to the girls in the pool. They all give him their attention. I can't hear his words, but they all giggle.

  Fuck.

  I wonder what would happen if I threw a plugged-in hair dryer in the pool.

  Out of the house walks an incredibly tall black girl. Fucking gorgeous. Wearing the tightest bright pink dress I've ever seen. She carries a small laptop.

  This must be Jasmine, his public relations manager. Steve warned me about her. I was prepared for this
. Her job is to protect Damien.

  They both walk toward me. My mouth goes dry. I sip my water.

  I can't help but stare at Damien Cage. His black hair is buzzed on the sides but flared up with blond highlights in long spikes on the top. Like flames.

  Under his strong forehead are those trademark eyebrows with the piercing and tattoo. Being the Damien Cage fan that I am, I know what the tattoo says and why he has it.

  His eyes sport some new lines. They look good on him, though. Adds character. The boy on my wall poster is being replaced by a man. Hotter now, actually.

  His jaw is square and commanding. Thick white boy lips but not pretty by any means. A hint of cruelty as he smirks. I bet he was born smirking.

  His eyes themselves are a deep blue. Deeper than ever I imagined as he gets closer to me. Is that a hint of attraction I see?

  He nods.

  Fuck, can he read my thoughts? No, he's just nodding to something Jasmine is saying.

  Shit.

  Tall, black, and gorgeous Jasmine Ryder is all legs, tits, and ass. Green eyes. Big thick beautiful lips, bottom one pierced on the right.

  There is something about her... an energy I can't put my finger on. I don't know if it's her proximity to Damien Cage, but I'm feeling a stirring toward her too. Must just be the proximity, right?

  I'm not usually attracted to girls. Well, okay... I ate my friend Lexi's pussy one night after consuming almost an entire bottle of tequila. But I'm perfectly straight. I'm just getting some weird vibe from this Jasmine chick.

  Useless Ativan isn't doing much to keep my heart from beating out of my chest and my pussy from jumping out of my panties as they reach the table.

  I stand up.

  As they stop, Damien Cage just looks into my eyes. His smirk becomes a half-smile. Nobody says anything for a few seconds.

  "Welcome to my home," he says.

  "Hi," I say, immediately hating the way I say it. "I'm Annika Spenser from MiamiImproper.com."

  "Hello Annika Spenser from MiamiImproper.com. It's a pleasure for you to meet me."

  "And it's a... um... ha ha!... yes, actually it is."

  God, he's messing me up already!

  "This is Jasmine, my public relations manager," he says.

  "Nice to meet you, Annika," says Jasmine in a voice not completely female. And hands that are definitely not female.

  Oh my God. Jasmine is a... I don't know... transsexual? transgendered? Not sure what or which. I look at her legs through the tight dress. No sign of a cock. Although it could be tucked. Or removed. But this is definitely a guy.

  Or was.

  Or is. What the fuck do I know?

  I look back at Damien with his massive chest and shoulders. I get a flash of the two of them wrapping themselves around me.

  I swallow.

  "Sit, please," says Damien.

  I sit. They sit. Damien refuses to break eye contact with me.

  "Would you like a drink?" he says.

  "No," I say.

  "I hope you don't mind if Jasmine sits in with me. She sits in on everything I do. You know, to keep me in line. I have a tendency to sometimes say things I shouldn't say."

  "A-ha."

  A-ha? Really, Annika? That's the best you can come up with? A-ha?

  "So, Mr. Cage," I say. "We at MiamiImproper.com–"

  "Call me Damien," he says.

  "Okay, Damien," I say with a laugh, "thank you for agreeing to this interview. We at MiamiImproper.com appreciate your time. And I'd just like to say I'm a huge fan."

  "What's your favorite Eon Sphinx song?"

  "Tattered Angel."

  He squints at me.

  "What's your favorite non-Eon Sphinx song?" he says.

  "Oh, I don't know," I say, trying to sound like there are no songs besides Eon Sphinx's. "Far Away by Nickelback probably."

  His eyes go wide and he leans forward.

  "Why that song?" he says, his tone very serious.

  Did I just hit a nerve?

  "Um, it's very powerful. Emotional. Do you like it?"

  He leans back and folds his arms, staring intently at me.

  "Yes," he says. "I like it a lot. Nickelback is a good band. Friends of mine."

  "Now, do you mind if I record this?" I say.

  "Not at all. I record everything myself."

  He smiles at me.

  Ooooooh.

  I take out my Olympus voice recorder and press Record. Then I reach into my purse and pull out my big black-framed glasses. Fuck, I should have gone home, changed, and put in contacts. I look down at my notepad.

  "You should never take them off," Damien says.

  "I'm sorry?" I say.

  "Your glasses. Fucking sexy. I bet you'd look great in them with nothing else."

  Oh my God, did he just say that?

  "Damien," says Jasmine. "We're here to do an interview. Focus please."

  "Yes dear," he says.

  I return to my notepad. On it is the list of questions I threw together at my desk three hours ago.

  But I can't see any of them. They've become hieroglyphics that I can't decode.

  Damien Fucking Cage just told me I'm hot. I think I need an ambulance.

  Shit, Steve! It would have been better to send Dale on this assignment. He wouldn't be losing control like this.

  Just wing it, Annika!

  "So," I say, clearing my throat, "when is the next Eon Sphinx album coming out?"

  "Eon Sphinx," he says with a snicker. "Eon Sphinx. Oh God, we're... how shall I say this?... on a break."

  Shit no. I don't like the sound of that. No more Eon Sphinx?

  The fan in me is heartbroken at these words. But the reporter in me smells a scoop.

  "That sounds ominous," I say. "Are you having creative differences?"

  He puts his head down with a smile, scratches the back of his neck, then beams his baby blues up at me in a Lord Byron underlook.

  He can do that all day long.

  "You could say that," he said.

  "Damien," says Jasmine in a warning tone.

  "Jaz, it's going to get out sometime. Why not now?"

  "Damien!"

  He sits up and looks full at me.

  "Eon Sphinx is broken up," he says. "Finished. Dead. Okay? I'm sick of trying to pretend that everything is fine. I need to be honest. Not just with myself but with the world. Eon Sphinx is no more."

  His eyes are full of pain. He folds his arms, staring and frowning at something behind me.

  I resist the urge to throw myself on his near-naked body to comfort him.

  "I'm sorry," says Jasmine as she stands up, "this interview is over. Mr. Cage is not–"

  "Not what?" he says, his voice full of irritation. "Not feeling well? Not in a right frame of mind? Jaz, I'm sick of lying. This interview is not over. Sit the fuck back down."

  Jasmine sits again.

  I just keep looking at Damien Cage, his hands folded together. He looks up at me.

  "My mission is bigger than Eon Sphinx," he says. "I have a higher calling. Eon Sphinx has gotten me where I need to be to do what I was meant to do on this Earth."

  I don't know what to say. I just keep looking at him.

  "My mission," he says, "is to help people. Eon Sphinx's mission, on the other hand, is just to make money. Which is great. Nothing against money. But I have enough now. More than I ever need. It's time to give back. I just turned thirty and I need to help the world."

  "So," I say, "you want to become a philanthropist?"

  He shoots a devilish smile at me while looking up at me. I think I might melt soon.

  "Sort of," he says.

  "Damien," says Jasmine. "You're going to ruin yourself. Don't do this. Don't tell her. If this gets out, your career is ruined."

  "I don't give a fuck about my career anymore! I sing songs and pose. That's all I do. What am I contributing to the world? Nothing! Not to mention sitting there telling kids on TV that they can become stars when I kn
ow they can't. It's not about talent. It's about drive and hard work, but they don't want to teach that on American TV. They'd rather sell the bullshit dream. Sing a song and you'll get rich. Tell me, Annika, who won America's Top Voice last season?"

  I know, but I can't think of it.

  "Ummm..." I say, "The guy with the big mop top. I can't think of his name."

  "Nope," he says. "That was the previous season. But while we're on the topic, do you know where he is now?"

  I nod no.

  "In rehab," he says. "Painkillers. Couldn't take the pressure. Had to resort to drugs. Now, the winner this season, who I helped to get there with my amazing judging skills, is Lija Charry."

  "Right," I say. "She's amazing."

  "Yes, she's amazing. She's got the best voice I think I've ever heard on any human being. But guess what? She doesn't want it. She thinks she wants to be a pop star but she doesn't have it in her. I looked into her eyes every day for eighteen weeks and didn't see it. That drive. That passion. She's going to go home and ride horses on her daddy's ranch. Marry the ranch hand who's lusted after her for years and make babies. You will never... and I mean never... hear from her again."

  He turns and stares at the house. He squints, like he's recalling something. Jasmine looks at me with a he's-off-and-running-and-there's-no-stopping-him look.

  "Do you know how I got this house?" he says.

  Is this a trick question?

  I think I know where he's going here, so I pick the smart answer.

  "Hard work," I say.

  His eyes light up and look at me. A new bolt of lightning shoots downward into my crotch. He's definitely going to need to get this chair cleaned.

  "Yes!" he says. "And that's what these kids don't understand. I built Eon Sphinx by getting two lazy fucks up out of bed every morning to play every fucking show I could get us into when I was fifteen years old. Ace and Trent just wanted to smoke weed and hang out, but I wanted to be famous. You know and I know I'm not the best singer out there, but I wanted it. I wanted it more than anything. And all I see around me now are kids who are not being taught that if you want something you've got to sacrifice for it. You can't just go on an audition, sing, and expect doors are going to open up for you because you're talented. Fuck talent! It's not about talent. It's about hard work. I'm tired of being a tool to help deceive kids like that. And besides, there's more to life than selling songs. I think I've sold enough."