Doll Face

by C. M. Stunich

  “The lead singer of Indecency everyone.” She holds her hand out to indicate Turner's scowling face and then looks over her shoulder at her band, nodding her chin like this is something she expected. Interesting. “As you well know, their song One Woman just surpassed my single Belittle on the Billboard charts, so congratulations are in order.” She claps and the crowd follows suit, just as we hear the opening notes to said song.

  Crap.

  Only, this version of the song is like something you'd find in a cheap children's jewelry box. Open the top folks and listen to the cruddy little jingle within, stripped of soul and passion and heart. My teeth hurt as the guitarist's weak chords spring to life and Turner snarls into the microphone. All around us, California's elite start to exchange glances and the room goes still and silent for a split second, right before he says, “you want to see me fuck this stage up? So be it.”

  And then everything goes nuts around us.

  People push towards the stage, shoving us forward, encouraging us to join Turner as he lets loose with a massive scream, bending over at the waist and completely and utterly annihilating the sound of the instruments behind him. Whereas Trey or Naomi could compete with their guitars, where Ronnie could guide his friend's voice with a well-placed rim shot, these guys can barely keep up. I watch as Turner completely skips the intro to the song and goes straight for the meat of it.

  “MYONEWOMAN! She's the ONLY one that understands. That fucking UNDERSTANDS.”

  Turner's powerful scream trails off into a gut wrenching sort of angry sob. Oh, and it's bloody beautiful. Shit.

  “That mega fucking douche bitch,” Ronnie snarls, pulling me against him and fighting the push and pull of the crowd, guiding us towards the edge of the room, hiding us in the shadows under the soffit near the restrooms. Even with the weakness of the music, Turner's voice carries the song and sends my heartbeat racing. The emotion in his words twists the song and flips it up to a whole new level. Oh how I'd like to see him sing like this with his actual band. What a fucking treat that would be.

  Turner swings the mic around and spins, licking his lips and crouching low at the front of the stage. His tight jeans stretch across his crotch as he spreads his knees wide and lets everyone take a look at what he's packing.

  “She's the only one that breathes life into this desolate,” he bites this word off, letting his eyes search the crowd's collective face, “hell hole. This desolate slice of shit. My one woman. My ONLY Goddamn motherfucking beautiful ugly bleeding bloody dark and BROKEN and whole and PERFECT FUCKING woman.” Ronnie and I exchange a glance at the modified lyrics and watch as the polished gem of sin before us morphs into a growling beast, just as prone to being fucked by a good slice of rock 'n' roll as the rest of us. Celebrities? Eh. Heiresses? Screw 'em. Actors? Just people.

  My pulse flutters as I watch the crowd eat Turner's voice up, taste his pain, flick their tongues out for just a sliver of that drama. Must be nice to have a life so perfect that you're willing to eat up the suffering of others just to feel human.

  “Now what?” I ask Ronnie, glancing over at him. He's looking up at his friend, but there's nothing he can do at this point, not a Goddamn thing. “Another drink?”

  “Yes,” he murmurs, turning his brown eyes back to mine, “yes, please.”

  Turner won't get off the fucking stage, so I stop worrying about it by letting Lola order me another drink with a nasty sounding name. I feel totally off my game right now – it's been a long time since I was just drunk. It's a different feeling for sure. Better though, I think, less soul altering and more like I'm just physically fucked up.

  I sway with the music, listening to my friend's voice rise and fall in steady rhythms around Lola and me, my hands on her hips, my cock rigid and unyielding between us. That bastard. I know what she wants as she slides her hands up my shirt and convinces me to keep the worries at bay for just another couple of moments. Weird how that works, right? One of us can be having a freak-out while the other stands by calmly and then bam, we're switching places. But that's a good thing, right? Like a fucking sign that this could really work between us.

  “Take me in the bathroom and fuck me,” Lola whispers as the crowd crashes the stage and we sit back here, bobbing in the smaller waves. I feel her mouth on my throat, her breath stirring my hair. Fuck. The whole broken condom thing is a fiasco I definitely don't want to repeat, especially not until after I get my test results back. And then we've got to deal with the whole birth control thing. Even though Turner was joking on his way over here, saying that Lola was probably already pregnant, he's got a point. Tomorrow morning, Lola and I will have another grown-up talk. Much as I fucking hate those. It almost feels like I've been avoiding them for so long that they're all catching up to me at once. Ugh. “Or better yet, slam me into the wall, right here. Do me bare and nasty, Ronnie.” I bite my lip as Lola grabs at my waistband and tries to steer me in the direction she wants me to go.

  It works.

  Fuck, I mean, I'm weak and I'm a dude. Two things working against me. I couldn't stop right now, not even if I wanted to. The last little bit of me that wants to protest is broken down by the booze and I find myself promising that tonight, it's okay. We can deal with all the rest of this shit tomorrow. Anyway, my dick doesn't really care about any of that, so he's happy with this plan. More than happy. Thrilled. Can't really blame him though. Who wouldn't want a woman that's willing to jump into a brand new relationship, take on a pair of kids from other women, sit with my tight-lipped parents in their suburban home without batting an eye? And I mean, I get that Lola was a part of Stephen's plan, but I don't blame her for it, not for any of it.

  “Right here, Ronnie,” she tells me, spinning us around so that her back's against the wall, her legs around me, her fingers threaded together behind my neck. I lean down to kiss her, starting slow, mimicking Turner as his rapidly slurring voice twists through the microphone. People in the crowd keep bringing him drinks and he keeps taking them. I should probably get over there and deal with it but for once, I just want to enjoy my moment, just be happy for me. I figure if I can hear him singing through the mic, he's not doing anything else that might get him into trouble. That'll have to be enough.

  Ronnie McGuire is currently occupied.

  I increase the intensity of my kiss, trying to take some pleasure in the raw, undisciplined beat of the drums from onstage. Our slick tongues slide together, teeth scraping against one another, fingers grasping. Mine knead Lola's flesh in a greedy grip, not oblivious to the crowd around me, but not obsessed with it either. There are some pretty strict rules in this club: no pictures, no video, all secrets. What happens in Slick's is supposed to stay in Slick's. But whatever. Worst case scenario, a video gets out – much like the one between Turner and Naomi – and the world knows that Lola and I are together. I'll just adopt my friend's attitude on that and say fuck it.

  Lola reaches down and unbuttons my pants before I take over, pushing her hands away and wondering how the hell we're going to get away with this, dressed in jeans and all that. A skirt would've been a little easier. I smile against Lola's lips as I unzip her and crowd in closer, trying to hide her body with mine. To be fair, there are people on either side of us, engaged in pretty much the same fucking activity, but it doesn't matter. Lola is mine now.

  I feel my lips twitch as that basic male urge washes over me. It's alright though, all good. I don't mind being Lola's too. I've been at this world too long to think that owning a woman is even possible, let alone that it means shit. A partnership – that's what this is all about.

  “Bear with me,” I growl around another wild kiss. “Quickies with jeans take some serious skill.” I push her jeans down her hips and let my mind fill with images from the parking garage, of pushing her knees back and fucking her on the hood of some random dude's car. My blood heats up in time with another one of Turner's screams. It echoes around the club, bouncing off the chandeliers and seriously fucking with my head. That's a m
illion dollar shout right there. Apparently, quite literally, too.

  I free my cock from my jeans, thanking the Gods above that Lola's new skinny jeans are some weird ass stretchy fabric and not straight up denim. That's a fuck of a lot harder to maneuver around. I spin Lola around and hold her close to me, letting her brace herself on the wall with her hands.

  “It's gonna have to be from behind again, doll face. Hope that's okay with you?” Lola murmurs her approval, pushing her ass against me, as I slide my cock against her swollen wet folds, tasting that heat with the head of my cock, feeling an anxious jump in my pulse as I start to push inside of her. I have no way of knowing that I'm mirroring Turner's night with Naomi on that fateful Thursday night. Eh, even if I did, it wouldn't have changed anything anyway. At least for us, our night's not gearing up towards being nearly as gnarly as his.

  I thrust deep, one quick stroke, just like that and fill Lola up with my cock. My lids flutter and my body spasms at the naked feel of her body against mine, her slick heat, the rough ridges of her pussy massaging my shaft as I move against her, almost uncontrollably. Holy Christ on a Cracker. How the fuck can you do something so many times and not think a thing of it, and then one day, everything just changes and something that was insignificant becomes everything?

  “I want to get you pregnant, Lola,” I whisper and she groans, shoving herself harder against me. I don't even know how she can hear me over the crush of the crowd as they cry for Turner, throw themselves at his feet. That's what it means to be a rock god, I guess. Even in your blackest moments, you have to be able to claim the audience, make them submit. I wonder if I'm in that category too now? Or if I'll ever be?

  “Do it, Ronnie,” she shouts back at me, not caring who's listening, not giving a fuck who might be watching. We slam our bodies together hard, harder, hardest. There's no love required for this slick oiled motion, this exchange of fluids. Yeah, sure, I love her, I do. One day soon, I'm going to just fucking say it. For right now, this works. This feels fucking perfect. I push Lola's sleeve up and squeeze her leopard tattoo. That's what she is right now, like a wild cat. “Do it,” she growls again, rocking against me, bringing me to orgasm a hell of a lot quicker than I'd like. I want to savor this moment, eat it up with a spoon and come back for more.

  I let the drums in completely then, ignore the little technical errors or the other bullshit that bugs me, and just try to listen to the music. What they're playing right now is shit that we wrote after all. Even if the notes aren't perfect, it's still ours. Just the fact that these guys have memorized our shit, played it enough that they can whip it out at a moment's notice is impressive to me. I don't care about anything else.

  I bite back the orgasm by clamping my teeth down on my tongue, slamming into Lola's ass as the crowd spins behind me, like a whirlpool, trying to pull us in and drown us in its depths.

  The pummeling bite of the drums nips at my heels, spurring my hips faster, harder, deeper. Lola cries out and collapses forward, her body tightening, her fingers curling against the wall. If this really was a one-night stand right here, I know I'd be crawling back for more, begging for it, desperate for another taste of this woman.

  I'm feeling good, letting my worries wash over and past me as I lose myself inside of Lola, loving her even as I let myself devolve into an animalistic mass of muscles and cock and testosterone. Feeling real good until I spot Paulette Washington in the crowd not a dozen feet away from us. She's got a smile on her face, arms crossed over her plain black T-shirt. She might not be wearing a suit right now, but her blue jeans and neutral eyeshadow leave her just as invisible. Crap.

  If I physically could've pulled myself away from Lola in that moment, I would've. But I can't. The pull between us is ten times as strong as the riptide that makes up the sweating, drooling, panting crowd. I growl out a curse and curl my fingers against her hips, spilling myself inside of her, relishing the moment at the same second I'm fucking hating Paulette Washington.

  Lola moans, reaching a hand back and grasping for me like she's afraid I'm going to stop, and then she collapses, forcing me to grab her around the waist and drop us both to the floor. Sweat is pouring down her face and her lips are curved in a crooked half-smile.

  “Fucking fuck, Ronnie,” she whispers, looking over her shoulder with a contented expression of feminine possessiveness that makes my heart hammer. Unfortunately, when she sees my face, the expression drops away and she's shoving me back, yanking her pants back into place while I do the same. I help Lola to her feet as she narrows her eyes at me and then follows a nod of my chin to the TV producer and her admittedly terrifying expression. There's a … blankness … there that I don't like, that leaves me really uneasy. The hell is this? “That bitch,” Lola snorts, grabbing my hand and dragging me towards Paulette. I almost want to run in the other direction, but what good would that do me? Better to face this shit head on. “Interrupting my first raw dog with my new bloke. Motherfucker.” I almost smile at Lola's slang, almost. But then I get close enough to Paulette to hear her voice when she speaks.

  “Mr. McGuire,” she says, her voice as pleasant as the hiss of a snake. Wonderful. A quick glance over my shoulder shows me that Turner's still onstage. Good. I look back at Paulette.

  “What the fuck do you want? Something about the way you're staring at me tells me this isn't just a coincidence that I'm seeing you here tonight, is it? You must really want that reality show.” Paulette laughs, her blindingly brilliant teeth reflecting back the throbbing club lights like a fireworks show inside her wide mouth.

  “After what I just witnessed? Of course, I do. That's TV gold right there, Miss Saints, Mr. McGuire.” She takes a step back, pushing her back against the dancers around her. I guess they sense some of the strangeness that I do and most of them move away without protest. “I was wondering if I could have a moment of your time?”

  “The answer's no, Paulette. I don't know how to make that any clearer.” Paulette keeps smiling at me. That's the scariest part of all of this. Still smiling. But there's something else about her tonight that kind of freaks me out, something that either wasn't there before or was very carefully hidden. That's when I see the dots of crimson on the back of her hand, like spots of red paint. Or blood. Could very well be blood, right?

  Lola sees it too and we exchange a glance.

  “Oh,” she says, cringing and wiping the back of her hand on her shirt. “Silly me. Things got a little messier than I'd intended.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I ask, and she sighs, sweeping pale strands of brunette over her shoulder. Her eyes slide past me, catch on Turner for a moment before she drops her gaze back to mine. I squeeze Lola's hand tighter, keep her fingers clenched in a death grip. I won't go through the shit I went through at the concert ever again. If Paulette has a gun, a knife, or what the fuck ever, I'm ready. At this point, I'm ready for just about everything. “What is going on here?”

  “I'd like to talk elsewhere, Ronnie. There's just so, so much I want to say,” Paulette breathes with a sigh. “I was going to wait, try to stay patient with you, but there have been some … unforeseen circumstances that have arose that practically demand your immediate attention.”

  “Wow. I had no idea that reality TV was such a cutthroat business. Sorry if I don't seem more empathetic about the whole thing.” Paulette laughs and shakes her head, looking down at the floor for a moment before running her tongue across her lower lip. She glances sharply up at me.

  “Remember how I told you my sister fell prey to her addiction?” I raise an eyebrow. “Well, she wasn't addicted to any of the usual culprits. No drugs, no alcohol, not even power or money. She just … well, she was addicted to a man.”

  “I see,” I say and exchange another look with Lola. Her blue eyes are open wide and locked on Paulette like she's just as sure as I am that something shitty is going to happen. Of course it is, right? I thought our roller coaster of crap had hit the top during the concert. I think I was rig
ht about that, but see, here's the thing, even after the roller coaster gets to the top, it's still sitting pretty high and there's a hell of a long way down that follows after. “And this has to do with us how?”

  “Well,” Paulette begins, sighing like I'm being difficult, “this really would've been easier in private.” She shakes her head again and digs out a cigarette. Huh. Didn't peg her as a smoker. Guess we all have our little surprises. “Anyway, what I maybe should've told you right away was that my married name is Washington. Strange, right, that a modern woman like me would change her name to match her husband's? It's a long story, so I won't get into that.” Paulette sucks in her lower lip with a pop and then pokes me in the chest with a finger. “It's just that my maiden name has a certain stigma attached to it.” My heart picks up its pace, and I feel my throat going dry, constricting tight. Oh no. No. No. This is over. It's over. It has to be over. Over, over, over. But nothing is ever that easy, is it? “Maybe you'll recognize it?” She takes a dramatic pause, but that's okay because I've already figured out what she's going to say. “Harding. No? No bells? How about America? Does that remind you of anyone? Maybe of a woman that your best friend's girlfriend shot in the face?”

  I feel the blood drain from my own face. My mind drifts to Brayden Ryker, of his warnings that the family was involved in all of this just as much as Stephen was. As America was. Travis, damn it. I love you man, but couldn't you have knocked up a less crazy woman? Shit.