Rock

by Kendall Grey

  Damn, it’s been a long, trying two weeks for this sex addict. And the next two will be even longer. Rubbing one out in my bunk every night ain’t cutting it. I have needs, and aside from a couple hot make-out sessions, Shades hasn’t laid a hand on me in days. He’s become distant, and as a result, so have I.

  But Eve has a birthday coming soon.

  And Shades agreed to the Birthday Club terms like everyone else …

  Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself again. The anticipation is slowly killing me. Especially in light of Shades’s recent turn of events.

  In other news, my nose is much better, and we’re on our way to join the Get Your Rock Off tour, where we’ll meet Banging Betties, I hope sans the alien homewrecker child. But, I’m realistic. I know The Thing will be around somewhere, lurking in the shadows, waiting to launch an attack with a scream grenade or those annoying little coo things Jinx is so fond of. Even Toombs got a little googie-eyed when Eliza & Co. first crashed our party on the bus a couple weeks ago.

  I swear they’ve all turned against me.

  We passed a sign that said “Dallas CITY LIMIT” a few miles ago, and the landscape has changed from barren, rural flatlands to concrete and metal edifices. At least we’ll be onstage tonight. It’s been fourteen days since our farewell gig on the Just Breathe tour—damn, I miss those Aussies—and I’m itching to get in front of a crowd again.

  You’d think touring would get old after a while. It does, to a degree, but when you’re away from it, even for a short time, The Rock calls you home. Always, The Rock.

  We slip between two nondescript buses and roll to a stop behind the venue. A cotton candy pink behemoth on wheels sits by itself across the lot in a cordoned-off area. It sports a huge logo with twin guns interwoven between two back-to-back Bs on its side. I burp up foul, sulfurous gas and rub my stomach.

  “Welcome to Dallas,” Freddie calls as he throws our beast into park and shuts down.

  We rocker zombies rise from the dead, tumbling out of our bunks, stretching, hungry for brains.

  Jillian pops up, perky as I’ve ever seen her. “Chop, chop, bitches. Let’s help the roadies unload so you can meet your new tour buddies.” The spring in her step is positively Tigger-worthy.

  “Rah, fucking rah,” I grumble, though I would like to meet some of the other bands. The ones who aren’t Banging Betties.

  We do as Jillian asks, hauling out our shit like good little worker bees—except for Shades, who gets a free pass because of his penis problem. Eve’s impending birthday materializes again as a gentle reminder that I’ll get relief soon enough, with or without Shades.

  When the gear is offloaded, I start inside to grab a drink. Eliza and Shades’s devil spawn intercept me.

  “Hey, hold up,” Eliza says. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot a couple weeks ago.” The alien wiggles, trying to lift its enormous head from her shoulder. I shrink back, stifling the threatening shiver. “Maybe we can start over.” She holds out her hand. I inspect it for drool, piss, or baby shit. Looks clean. “Eliza Guns.”

  I bite down the curl banging at the door of my top lip and fake a smile. “Letty Dillinger.” I shake her hand with an extra firm grip.

  She pulls the swaddled demonling forward and turns it around. “And this is Gabrielle.”

  My gut clenches with an acidic burst that launches a wave of terror up my gullet. I swallow hard. This time the curl sneaks out. “Uh …” Disgusting. What the fuck is the use of this thing, anyway? It doesn’t talk. It doesn’t contribute anything to society. It just sits there, shitting its pants, barfing on things. Staring at me with Shades’s eyes. “Umm … hi …?” I tuck my hands behind me so I don’t accidentally touch it.

  Thuds of heavy boots hammer down the bus steps. “Eliza,” Shades says. “How are … you?”

  Her perfect white teeth light up the pavement, the air, the whole fucking world when she smiles. The tension in her shoulders melts away. Her stance loosens. She fucking beams at him. “I’m great. Glad you guys decided to join us.”

  My gut churns again, but not at the subtle gibe. At the glow.

  Oh shit. She still loves him.

  But he doesn’t love her. He said he didn’t. And I believe him.

  He doesn’t love her.

  Right?

  I turn to him. He isn’t fixated on her. He’s stuck on the baby. Another explosion erupts in my stomach. I hug myself to keep it from leaking out of an unsuspecting orifice.

  “You want to hold her?” Eliza asks, leaning the shit machine closer for his inspection.

  Don’t do it, Shades! You’ll get the mange!

  He opens his arms.

  My hopes crash.

  The two of them engage in a clumsy dance of shuffling feet and awkward shoulder lifts to secure the delivery of this boyfriend thief dressed in little person’s clothes.

  “Let her head rest in the crook of your arm,” Eliza directs. “Like this.” She shifts the thing upward and repositions it.

  Shades doesn’t look uncomfortable. He looks positively mortified.

  Join the club. I think I’m about to lose bladder control.

  “You’re not going to break her, Todd.” Eliza laughs and eases back, stuffing her hands in her pockets as she admires her handiwork.

  I get a good look at her body, and the wave of raging jealousy swells anew, battering my already bruised ego. This broad is smokin’ hot. She’s curvy in all the right places. Her plump, luscious tits are perfect for motorboating or Hawaiian muscle fucking. A nice round caboose brings up the rear. I imagine those long, slender legs sliding around Shades’s thighs as he bangs his Betty into oblivion.

  Bitch.

  “I’ve never held a baby before …” Let alone my own hangs in the air, unspoken. Shades readjusts, and the fear bleeds away as his eyes round with tender, adoring softness.

  I swallow the bile climbing up my esophagus.

  He just met this horrid creature mere days ago, and already, he loves her. How is this possible? And where does Letty fit into the New World Order of Fatherhood?

  I settle a hand on my kicked-out hip and wait for him to remember me, but he seems to have selective amnesia.

  “She’s got your eyes,” Eliza says softly as she leans in and caresses the baby’s cheek.

  Shades stiffens. He shoots a glance at me and breaks free of the spell the witch put him under. With a slight grimace, he passes the wriggling thing back to its mother and dusts his hands off as if he touched something dirty.

  Eliza’s gaze narrows. “I need some time to talk with you about Gabrielle. Alone.” Her tone cools as she slips a glance my way.

  I empty my lungs in a great rush and fake another smile. She’s really playing the “alone” card? Fine. I pretend to be the accommodating girlfriend. “What better time than now? Shades, I’m sure the two of you have a million things to catch up on. I’ll just go and help the boys get the equipment ready.” Or something.

  “We won’t be too long,” Eliza says.

  “Take your time.” I do my best to keep my voice neutral.

  He pleads silently for me to stay. I wander toward the venue instead. He can fight this battle alone. Not my problem.

  Resisting the urge to kick every rock on the pavement between the bus and the door, I channel the anger into foot stomps and beat out a rhythm for a new song. It’ll be an anthem to The Rock—the beacon of truth and freedom everyone in the music world seems to have forgotten these days.

  Banging Betties, especially. That stupid, popular song of theirs is about as rich as a meth-head hooker turning tricks outside the local Walmart at the end of the month before payday. “What the fuck ever happened to music?” I yell to the sky.

  “New blood made it better,” a woman says behind me.

  I stop and turn around. The lead singer of Banging Betties puffs on a cigarette, drops the butt, and crushes it under a five-inch pink platform shoe. I don’t buy the sweet, apple cheeks and freckles for a second.
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br />   “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” I mumble under my breath.

  The chick walks toward me, real slow, like she’s scoping out the scene of a crime she plans to commit later on. “I hear you’re opening for us tonight.” She rakes her fake-eyelashed gaze over me with the silent scrape of fingernails down a chalkboard. “Guess you finally hit the big time.” She grins, her engineered-to-appear-au naturel look mocking me.

  Oh hell no. I’m fixin’ to take off my jewelry, bitch. I crack my neck and reach for an earring.

  “Letty. Good.” Jillian appears out of nowhere, the clacks of her sensible flats temporarily slapping the fury out of me. “I see you met Lizzie.” She avoids eye contact with the bitch.

  Seriously? Jillian can NOT be scared of this little cunt.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced.” I get up in Lizzie’s personal space and roll my shoulders. She sneers, totally ruining the good-girl façade, revealing the horned troll hiding beneath the safe bridge of soft pink lipstick, ample rouge, and natural red curls.

  “You wanna do the honors, Mom?” I ask my manager.

  “Lizzie Smith, meet Letty Dillinger.” Jillian takes half a step back as Lizzie and I stand toe to toe, breathing each other’s oxygen, feeding each other’s rage, testing each other’s limits. Jillian lowers a hand between us and gently pushes me away.

  “Now, girls,” she says, facing me. She lifts a “behave yourself” brow and wills me to shut up.

  I don’t. “Oh. So, you’re Rock ’n’ Roll’s messiah!” I snicker and point a finger at Lizzie. “The one who’s ‘gonna bring musical salvation to the unbelievers who haven’t found the light at the end of the pop metal tunnel.’ Isn’t that what you said in the Rolling Stone interview? Fuck, you’re a veritable Jesus Christ Superstar. With ovaries. Forgive me as I fangirl. What an honor to tour with you.” Sarcasm bleaches my words as I thrust my hand out for a shake.

  Lizzie flaps up her fake lashes, narrowing harsh blue eyes on Jillian. “Are all of your clients this ungrateful for an opportunity to tour with the number-six band in the country?” She scrapes me with a disgusted scowl.

  I retract my hand and ball it into a fist. Jillian covers it with a palm and squeezes, urging me away from Lizzie. “You’ll have to forgive Letty,” she says. “It’s been a long drive. She gets carsick. We’ll see you tonight.”

  I snatch my arm back as Jillian leads me toward the bus. As soon as we’re out of earshot, I demand an explanation. “That bitch flat out insults me, and you kiss her ass? What the fuck is up with you, Jillian?”

  She keeps her attention forward and her pace brisk. “Have you ever considered growing a little tact? You’d be amazed at how far it’ll get you.”

  “No, I haven’t, and you never complained about my lack of it before.”

  “You were never on a tour this big before. I suggest you cultivate some now, so when the stage lights come on tonight, your attitude will smell freshly douched, and the security on your sarcasm will be as tight as a virgin’s pussy. I expect to hear you quoting motherfucking Emily Post lines at the after party. Understand?”

  I dig in my heels and grind all forward motion to a halt. “Whoa. Hold the fuck up.” I bust out my “hell no” finger and waggle it in a huge arc between us. “Did you hear what she said to me? She said we hit the big time because of them. Not our music. Not our passion. Not our dedication to our fans. But because they deigned to let us join their precious tour.”

  Jillian concedes with a heavy exhale. “Letty, I get it. You’re upset about the baby—”

  “The baby? This has nothing to do with the fucking baby. She insulted our music. She insulted The Rock!” How does Jillian not see the problem here?

  She levels me with a disbelieving stare. “Killer Buzz Float is the new kid on the playground here. Banging Betties are just trying to maintain a pecking order. It’s all a bunch of hot air. Leave it alone. It’ll work itself out. Trust me.”

  “I do trust you. That’s what bothers me. You, of all people, know where I’m coming from. You said you believed in us, in our music, yet you’re defending some twat you’ve never met before because she has more fans than we do?”

  Jillian looks away.

  My bullshit-o-meter senses a disruption in the Force. “Wait a minute.” I square my shoulders and face her head-on. “You have met her before, haven’t you?”

  Her unguarded expression hardens like hot steel thrust into cold water. She doesn’t answer.

  If it were a hit of acid, I’d be tripping balls. In the aforementioned Rolling Stone interview, Lizzie Smith vaguely alluded to being a muff muncher. She and the drummer, Betsy or Beth—her name is some other variation on the “Betty” theme—used to have a thing.

  “She’s a lesbian. And you got the hots for her!”

  Jillian’s upper lip twitches. She grabs my arm and starts walking again. “Come on. You need to get ready for the show.”

  Well, fuck me sideways with a spring-action ice cream scoop. Jillian has a crush on the number-two bitch on my Cunt Punt List.

  Truths from a Forked Tongue

  Tight-lipped Jillian won’t confirm or deny the rumor I started in my mind, despite me begging for details. She shakes her head, stomp, stomp, stomping forward, dangling this new carrot of information just out of my reach.

  When we get to the bus, it’s rocking in a steady rhythm. Somebody’s getting laid in there, which gives Jillian a convenient excuse to book over to the venue under the guise of “checking on things.”

  “Get showered, dressed, and fed. You go on at eight. Make sure the rest of them are ready,” she says, rolling her eyes at the bucking bus.

  “Come on, boss. I’ll show you my tits if you tell me what’s going on with you and Lizzie.” I gotta know if Jillian’s fucking that bitch. If she is, I might have to fire her ass.

  She starts to leave, and then pauses. She flicks a finger for me to lift my shirt. Hell yeah! I flash the girls at her and jiggle them for brownie points. I raise hopeful eyebrows.

  “Not bad,” she says, admiring my boobs. She turns away.

  “Wait a minute! No freebies. What’s up with you and Lizzie? Truth.”

  “The truth is nothing’s going on. Not a damn thing. Now go.” She tosses over her shoulder.

  “You’re a bitch, Jillian.” I shoot her a bird.

  She sashays across the parking lot, swinging her hips, and flips me a return one without looking back.

  Well, fuck-a-doodle-doo.

  Up the steps I go. I identify the grunts and moans from the rear of the bus as property of Rax and Eve. I wander down the aisle, smacking the bunk curtains to see if anyone else is home. No signs of life.

  Damn. Shades is probably off singing “Reunited” (and it feels so good) with Eliza, snuggled into a booth in some cozy café, their alien love child nestled between them, projectile vomiting and squirt-shitting.

  Barf. Literally.

  I catch a glimpse of naked bodies on the couch, so I shove my butt in the nearest bunk and watch wistfully from the shadows as Rax and Eve get their hump on. What a hot couple. Shades and I were hot once. Before Eliza busted up our party. Before I broke his dick. Before our routine became too … routine.

  Rax is on top of Eve, missionary style. His tight ass clenches and loosens with each thrust. Her toned, pale legs hug him as if her next heartbeat depends on him. The shocking contrast of flawless white on tattooed, tanned skin yanks my snoozing desire to full attention.

  Her arms drape across his broad shoulders. He kisses her slow and soft, deep and long. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but the talk is tender, by the sound of it.

  Eve winds her fingers through his thick, black hair and grasps a handful as her body tautens under him in a seizure of enviable pleasure. Rax kisses her through it, smiles, and pumps her full of himself. He collapses on top of her, and she giggles.

  A few more words are exchanged, caresses given and received, and then Eve slips into the bathicle (everything on
this bus is some form of cubicle) for a shower. Rax chugs some water from his bottle. His mane is wet with sweat. The smell of sex hangs thick in the air.

  I’d love to find Shades and release the squirt hounds from my dusty cooch, but in his absence—both physically and emotionally—they’ve got nothing to do but scratch their shriveled, flea-ridden balls.

  Rax rolls onto his back and twists his neck at an awkward angle to glance at me. “Something on your mind, Letty?”

  Shit. Didn’t realize he saw me perving on him. My cheeks heat as I climb guiltily from my hidey-hole. “Nah.”

  “That faraway look says different.”

  Here’s the thing about Rax and me. We don’t get along. Ever. We fight constantly. There’s no use getting into an emotional discussion with him—because that’s what this would be: me getting emotional and him talking down to me. He’s a master at pissing me off. In my opinion, the only thing he’s good for is playing guitar.

  And maybe the three-way we had with Shades behind the bus once wasn’t so bad.

  When I don’t answer, he says, “Eliza.”

  He sets the trap, and of course, I take the bait. Hook, line, sinker. I walk over to the couch and sit next to him. “I hate her. I fucking hate her.”

  Rax has the decency to tuck his thick, obviously exhausted, snake-tattooed cock under a towel. “Why? She seems cool to me.”

  “Because she’s …”

  Beautiful.

  When I don’t finish the sentence after a few seconds, Rax’s eyes widen. He leans closer and lowers his voice. “Because she’s Black?” he asks incredulously.

  Black? I screw up my face. “Because she’s …? What the fuck kind of racist bitch do you think I am? I don’t give a drunken Mother Superior’s butt fuck on the back of the Pope Mobile about what color she is.”

  “You puckered your lips so hard with the impending ‘B’ …” He swirls a finger in an awkward gesture above his mouth.

  I smack him upside his head with a huff-tinged scowl.

  “No, you dipshit. I hate her because she’s fucking beautiful. And she had a baby with my man. And unlike the other twats in her band who don’t care about The Rock, she’s actually a decent musician.”