Doll Face

by C. M. Stunich

  Lola's voice rises in time with my playing, until she's shouting and sliding to the floor, a quivering pile of flesh and shuddering muscles, a pulsing heartbeat and sweat sprinkled skin that draws me like a moth to flame. I want to let myself fucking burn. I screw the rest of the song out, gritting my teeth and clenching so hard that one of my sticks really does break.

  I stand up suddenly and chuck it against the wall, shoving my kit unceremoniously out of the way as I stomp across the carpet in my boots and slide my arms under Lola, fingers tight against her skin but gentle.

  “Like I said,” she whispers as I carry her to our ugly gold bedspread and lay her out on the king sized bed I never thought I'd have, that I'd end up sharing with another drummer. “Bloody brilliant.” I lean down, nibble her earlobe and breathe a sigh of contentment against her throat. Sweat drips from my body onto hers as I slide my stick up her thigh and find her heat, pushing it inside as Lola gasps and arches her back.

  “Now I'm going to play you like I play my drums,” I growl out, letting that feral urge break over me. I mean fuck it. Why fight? I keep trying to hold myself in check, keep preparing for the worst, but isn't it already over? Yeah, sure I have some gumshoeing to do, some answers to discover, some bullshit to shovel, but I can relax for this one, single, little moment, can't I? “Next time, it'll be your turn to play me something.”

  Lola starts to speak, but I cover her mouth with mine, fucking her with the slick piece of wood, the one that just made my kit sing, but is much, much happier here, drawing sounds from Lola's throat.

  “More,” she whispers, reaching down to grab my wrist, to graze her teeth across my lower lip. “I need more. Get that skinny stick out of the way and fuck me with your cock. Now.” I raise an eyebrow and sit back, sliding the stick from her pussy and raising it to my mouth. Lola's eyes shimmer like sapphires and she raises an eyebrow. “You wouldn't dare.” I slide the stick between my lips, tasting her heat, the sweetness of her body. Can't help myself. This is all her fault. She's the one that asked me to play. The music always wakes up all sorts of weird shit inside of me. Normally, I dull it back down with drugs. Today, I don't have that luxury. So if I'm thinking all kinds of weird shit – like how I'm going to marry this girl – you'll have to excuse me. I'm a drummer; it's what we do. And, like I said before, I had a chance with a soul mate and I lost it. Not many people get a second one. I refuse to waste it.

  So I lick the stick and then fling it away, against the glass doors that lead out to the balcony.

  “You're a nasty fuck, aren't you, Ronnie?” she asks me, sliding her hands up my sweat soaked abs, digging her fingernails into the grooves of my muscles. I smile down at her, tracing the leopard tattoo on her shoulder, the drum kit on her belly. Lucky for her, the bullet managed to avoid fucking up her ink. That'd have been a damn shame. I scoot back and lean over, running my tongue across the words Sugar Baby that are tattooed under her belly button. “Bloody fucking pervert.”

  “Only if that's what you want me to be,” I whisper, looking up from under a fall of dark hair. I sweep it away and sit up again, unbuttoning my jeans. I pause at the zipper and scoot off the bed, retreating into the bathroom to dump out my duffel bag. Underneath all the drug paraphernalia are a handful of condoms, all with the Indecency logo of course. I'm definitely going to need some more, and very, very soon. Or at least until my test results come back. Then maybe Lola can get on the pill or whatever. Or shit, maybe I should get a vasectomy? As much as I'd love to see Lola pregnant with my baby, I already have four fucking kids. All under the age of seven. Ugh.

  I cut those thoughts off at the source and jog back into the room to find Lola bent over, ass up in the air, stretching like a kitty cat. Fuck. Her panties are gone, pussy swollen and ready for me, and my fingers itch to take hold of her hips and pound her like a snare drum.

  “Hurry up, babe. Let's do it. This time, when I start screaming, there won't be any fucking cops to break down the door.” She glances over her shoulder at me, brunette hair sliding across her back as she turns. I don't waste any time following her instructions, unzipping my jeans and sliding the condom down my cock which is already moist, drenched in sweat, saliva, pre-cum.

  I climb up on the bed behind Lola, give her bullet wound a passing glance and push it from my mind. If something hurts, she'll tell me.

  I put the head of my cock against her heat and she thrusts backward, impaling herself on my shaft as we both groan and collapse together, my balls slapping against her ass as I fuck the shit out of her. I don't hold back. Couldn't even if I wanted to.

  “I want you to be mine, Lola,” I tell her, voice quiet but intense. I can taste the desperation in my own words as our bodies slide together and her muscles clamp down tight, trying to make up for the bit of latex that's separating me from her wetness. I want to feel Lola all the fuck over me.

  “I want to be,” she whispers, digging her nails into the bedspread, lifting her ass up for a better angle. I pound faster, fuck harder, thrust deeper. “Mark me, baby,” she growls, rocking against me, matching my beat, grinding against me while her pussy clenches in a pulsing rhythm that feels like the world's best song sounds. I drop my head back with a groan, using my hands on Lola's hips to keep myself steady. And hey, if nothing else, this wild little fuck of ours is helping me to appreciate this expensive ass bed that we probably spent way too much on. Fuck you, Paulette Washington, you and your cameras will never see a single second of this. “Slap my ass,” Lola commands in a screechy whisper, one that promises I'll get one of her epic little screams very soon.

  “As you wish,” I growl, raising my head back up and appreciating the view before I crack my palm against her cheek and her pussy flexes in response, milking the shit out of my dick. I slap her again, same response. Again, again, again. Until her ass is red and she's whimpering for more, telling me to pull her hair. I wrap my fingers in it and yank back, hard but not hard enough. Shit, I can't wait until she's all healed up. God help her when she is. We'll be fucking like rabbits then. Each and every room of this house is gonna get some.

  “Don't stop, Ronnie,” Lola snarls, slamming herself into me as I slap her ass again and enjoy the way it jiggles. Fuck yes. And then the screaming starts, and she's getting so tight I can hardly move inside of her. One of her tattooed arms slides underneath her body and goes for her clit, working it like a machine while I pump inside of her, praying and dreaming about the day I get to shoot my load into her fucking womb. “Ah, FUCK A NUN'S DRY CUNT, that's good,” she moans and then screams, and then moans again.

  When Lola comes, she washes my balls and thighs with her hot juices, drenching me as I keep thrusting, slamming her body into the bed while she whimpers and convulses beneath me, muscles tightening and drawing my own orgasm just a moment later.

  I explode inside the condom, fill that baby up, and break it.

  “You're supposed to leave room in the tip,” I tell Ronnie, flicking him in the junk and smoking my ciggy with post coital satisfaction curling in my belly. Oh yeah, that was nice. Shit, after so long, a boring little missionary screw in the dark would've felt like heaven. But that was so much better. There's nothing I love more than watching Ronnie fuck his drums before he fucks me. A good rut is like gold to me, baby.

  “I did leave room in the tip,” he says¸ still sounding a little freaked out. Looks it, too, with his eyes gettin' all buggy. The thick slashes of eyeliner don't help, making his brown eyes look almost as big as mine. “I don't know what happened.”

  “You came like a cow and blew a rubber? What the fuck, Ronnie?” Turner says, appearing out of nowhere and pausing next to us with his hands on his hips. At night, the entire property here glows with well-placed lights, strung through the trees and wrapped around the bases of imported palms. It's almost too perfect. I get the chills and have to pinch my own arm to remind my addled brain that I actually live here.

  “Shut up, Turner,” he growls, looking fierce for a minute there, getting my poor
pussy all wet again. Good thing I wore the soft black panties, one of the few pairs of mine that managed to make it to the mansion. These babies will catch all the happy juices and keep things clean downstairs. I finish my cigarette and drop it on the ground, using my new fuzzy pink heels to crush it out. Maybe I shouldn't be tottering around like a stork in these four inch tall little lovelies, but I can't help it. Lola Rubi Saints is not a wearer of flats, sneakers, sandals, or anything in between. I get that heels are kind of sexist, a little ridiculous, totally impractical. Fuck it.

  I paired the shoes with black skinny jeans and an Amatory Riot T-shirt in pale blue. Tore off the shoulders and cut the holes in my pants myself – it can be done, kids. Ronnie said I looked motherfucking fly, so I guess I did good. I even let him clean and patch my wounds up, loaded myself on painkillers, and stuck my very last plastic bottle of vodka in my pocket. I figure it's okay to drink, provided I'm doing it to have a good time and not just drown my worries. Bottoms up, bitches.

  “This is serious shit right here,” he snaps at his friend, but Turner looks unfazed. He's smiling at his friend, at me, at the van pulling up the driveway, presumably with Kash and Wren inside of it. “I really wanted to get those test results back first,” Ronnie adds in a hushed whisper. I put a hand out and squeeze his arm while Turner rolls his eyes and runs his tongue over his silver lip piercings.

  “Oh my God, dude, chill the fuck out. Your usual late night groupie consisted of virgins and squeaky clean coeds. I don't know how you did it, but you always picked the clean ones out. If anybody has room to worry, it's Jesse. I mean, fucking Rook Geary? That's frigging sick.”

  “You are such an asshole, man,” Jesse says, appearing in a black tank and jeans, boots and a similar style of makeup to Ronnie and Turner. It's like the whole band has a look that they're going for. “You don't think I bagged it when I fucked Rook?”

  “You mean when he fucked you, right?” Turner snorts as he gets out a cigarette and lights it before reaching a hand into his tight girly pants and adjusting his junk. “Sorry, Lola,” he says, wrinkling his nose up like he finds it amusing and not like he's actually sorry at all, “but sometimes when you tuck, shit gets stale up in there.”

  “Christ,” Ronnie snorts, blowing smoke in his friend's face while Jesse shakes his head and scowls, running his hand through his short hair. Trey appears a moment later, following Sydney and Dax in his wheelchair and pausing at the top of the steps. He doesn't look particularly thrilled about our plans for a night out.

  “Hope you guys enjoy yourselves while I rot away in here,” he calls out. Turner pulls his hand from his pants and flips his friend the bird before straightening his bright blue tee that says Untouchable on it. Fits the situation somehow.

  “Go jack yourself off to the Tattoo Terror website your sister's supposed to star on again. You don't want to blow too fast when you actually find a girlfriend. Get that practice in there.” Jesse chuckles, but Trey just picks up a decorative vase near the front door and chucks it down the driveway at Turner. The white pieces scatter like seashells across the bricks while Turner laughs and slides nimbly out of the way. “That probably cost like five hundred bucks or some shit.” He points at his friend with a hand covered in paw prints and bats, spider webs. “It's coming out of your share of the royalties.” I glance back and catch Trey rolling his eyes before he wheels himself back inside and slams the door. Poor bloke. I know if I was stuck here in bed or in a chair, I'd be having some tantrums of my own.

  “You're in a good mood,” Ronnie comments as he looks first at Turner and then over at me, letting his eyes slide to mine again. I know he wants to keep obsessing about the wild sperm that managed to break down our defenses, but I'm okay. Granted, I find out he gave me a disease and I'll kill 'im. For now, everything's going to be alright. I'll get some morning after pills tomorrow and we're golden.

  “Yeah, well, I got a call from the hospital and they've agreed to have Naomi moved to the mansion.” Turner grins big as he says this, squinching his eyes up like a kid at Christmas.

  “That's beaut, mate,” I say and Turner lifts up his hand for a high five. I slap him one and he does this stupid little jig in a circle, flinging his cigarette up in the air in celebration. “When they bringin' her over here?”

  “Day after tomorrow. Provided, of course, that I can get a full-time nurse to look after her. Shouldn't be a problem though. I mean, who doesn't want to work for us, right?” I turn and glance at Sydney over my shoulder, watching as she approaches the van in her tight purple dress and black heels. Her blonde hair hangs over her shoulders in soft waves, and her makeup glitters in the glow of the white lights. If Dax doesn't go for her now, he's a fucking idiot. What's he got to lose? I keep watching as she smiles, reaching out a hand and letting somebody pull her inside ahead of Dax before poking her head back out and shouting at Turner.

  “Campbell, we're following you guys, so don't get us lost, okay?”

  “Got it, bitch,” he says, turning towards the already open door of our van with a smirk. Leather seats, champagne, security guards that have already promised to wait outside the club for us. Has to be a good night, right? I look at the dude nearest us. These guys are all money and professionalism, not like Brayden's people who'd flat out refuse to get the fuck out of wherever it was that you asked them to leave. Not a moment's peace with those people and what do we have to show for it? A dead sister. Friends in comas. A gunshot wound that still hurts when I twist the wrong way. Assholes.

  I start towards the van, but Ronnie reaches out a hand and grabs me. When I look at him, he has that gravely serious expression on his face. Before he can say anything and ruin the moment, I spin in his grip and raise myself up on my toes for a kiss. Lightning crackles between us, electrocuting me from my head down to my toes. Hope my hair's not sticking up every which way as I pull back and smile.

  “Don't mention it again. Condoms break. Shit happens. Relax. Let's just enjoy ourselves tonight, okay?” Ronnie looks at me for a long, long moment before nodding and climbing in the van behind me.

  Slick's looks like your usual dump of a bar from the outside, unremarkable inside. It's only after we abandon our security detail at the chain in the back, pass the first bodyguard and enter into a dark den of iniquities that I see anything special. Holy fuck. There's a long bar, entirely occupied by people in suits and long dresses, leather jackets and jeans, even surf shorts and tanks. Every type of person imaginable is in here, but they've all got one thing in common: they're engaged in some pretty fucked up shit. People are snorting lines, slamming dope, even fucking in some of the high backed booths nearby.

  Turner breezes right past of all of this and straight to the men's restroom, pausing to look over his shoulder at one of the booths. The skin around his mouth gets tight and his eyes flash with pain before he schools his expression and turns back, opening the bathroom door and ushering us all inside. It's a tight fit, but we manage, waiting patiently as he opens one of the stall doors. Somehow, I expected it'd be a hell of a lot more difficult to find this secret door but Turner makes it look like a piece of piss, grabbing a silver ring and pulling up a door to reveal a set of stairs.

  “Well, fuck me runnin',” I say as Sydney cracks a tinnie she snatched off one of the tables on her way by. The people making out in the booth didn't even notice. She chugs the beer and then shakes her head, pointing at me.

  “Took the words right out of my mouth. This is fucking weird, Turner.”

  “Are you sure this is legit?” the blonde guy from Amatory Riot asks. Kash, I think it is. He has his arm around this pretty little ranga, her bright crimson hair curled up on the top of her head in a knot. She snuggles into him with a sigh, and I can see that there's love between them. It burns like a fiery aura, like I can see colors swirling in the air around them. Or maybe that's just the sex talking. Having a naughty before I came out was a good move, put me in a chipper mood. I slip my little vodka bottle out and unscrew the top, offering it
to Ronnie first before pouring the rest down my throat. I toss the plastic bottle in the rubbish bin as warmth explodes from my belly and climbs up my throat, setting my entire body on fire. Ah, and now I remember exactly why this was my drug of choice.

  “Trust me,” Turner growls, stepping back and gesturing with his hand, “this is fucking legit. Now get your asses down there and thank me later. Chop, chop, we ain't got all day.” Jesse moves forward first, descending into the darkness a split second before Ronnie grabs my hand and pulls me along with him, down the steps and into a tunnel with white lights lining either side of the floor.

  A giggle breaks from my throat, part nervousness, part vodka, part that bottle of champagne I downed on our way over here. Ronnie squeezes my fingers in his and pulls me close, around a corner and towards a pulsing blue glow and the strong, heavy beat of music. Some electronica crap is playing right now, but it doesn't really matter. At this point, just the idea of a night out, a chance to taste reckless abandon and pretend that I'm not a murderer, that I didn't lose my sister in some crazy fucked up custody battle, sounds like heaven.

  I close my eyes and listen to Ronnie's pulse, thrumming through his hand and into my body, up my arm and straight to my heart, like I've just slammed some pure, clean dope and it went straight to my chest. I suck in a deep breath, taste the distant hint of sweat and alcohol that lingers in the air.

  “I'm sorry about the condom,” Ronnie whispers, and I open my mouth to chastise him. He cuts me off with a growl. “Sorry that I didn't fuck you bareback when I had the chance.” I shiver and lick my lips.

  “Well, now that we're engaged and all, I suppose you'll be getting the chance to do that more and more often.” Ronnie snorts as we come around another bend in the hallway and pause at a second set of stairs, this one leading into a massive warehouse, complete with pearlescent wallpaper and chandeliers, exposed ductwork and a throng of throbbing people.