by Kendall Grey
After rifling through her bag, Lizzie produces a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. Though this is a nonsmoking hotel, like pretty much every hotel in the whole goddamn world these days, I doubt she cares much about the rules. She can afford to pay cleaning fees, if Banging Betties’ several hundred thousand Facebook fans are any indication.
Yeah, I checked after Dodge called. Just Breathe has close to a million. I’m confident in my decision to keep Killer Buzz Float right where they are tour-wise, but Lizzie’s testing my resolve with the barbs she dug into my skin. If I were a lesser woman who let emotions rule, I might give in and paint a pretty picture for KBF with Betty-inspired crayons of greener grass on the other side.
Lizzie grabs a nearly empty water bottle and sets it on the small round table beside a thickly cushioned burgundy chair. She sits, tosses its extra pillows to the floor, and draws a knee up. Her glistening pussy taunts me as if to motion me over. I lick my lips. In the lamplight, she glows like an eerie ghost when she rips the flint on the lighter and kisses it to the cigarette’s butt end. She inhales. Exhales a gray stream of smoke. My nostrils twitch. God, I love that smell.
Lizzie stares out the dark window to the city lights below us. She hasn’t said a word since we finished.
“Do you want me to go?” I ask, afraid of her answer.
She deigns to glance my way and shrugs.
She shrugs.
A blast of pain rockets through me—one I simply cannot weather in a moment that should be filled with tenderness.
Rejection.
I thought aftercare was an important part of submission. That’s what Miles and Toombs told me. Surely, they know about these things. Maybe Lizzie doesn’t.
Or maybe it’s not her way.
But I need it. I need her to hold me in the aftermath of all that transpired. My mind darts in too many directions. My body physically hurts, but my raw emotions flare under the deep cuts she inflicted with that simple flick of her shoulders.
I do not cry. Ever. But I do feel. And Lizzie’s apathy eviscerates me.
Emotional guts hanging out from the gaping wound, I dismount the bed, unsteady but angry enough to compensate with a blush of false bravado. Skin burning, I start to gather my belongings.
“Jillian.”
I look up.
She tosses me the lighter first and then cigarettes. I fumble but catch them. Staring at the little square box, I am lost. She pats the space next to her on the big chair, and the tightness choking my chest releases a tad.
I tentatively stumble to her. My legs are rubber. It’s hard to breathe. She did this to me.
Standing before her, I wait for a more definitive invitation. She takes another drag from the cigarette and flicks the ashes into the water bottle. “You gonna sit or what?”
I settle my butt next to hers. After being so intimate moments ago, I feel miles away. Unsure what to do, I open the box, slowly pull out a cigarette, and stare at it. Smell it. Tuck it between my lips. I already met my quota for the day, but I’ll make an exception. Lizzie snatches the lighter back and sets my smoke afire. We sit like that without words until the cigarettes are nothing but nubs. We drop the ends into the bottle.
“You’re a good lover, Jillian.” She does that thing with her hair again, clutching the mane and tossing it out of her eyes. Still won’t look at me, though.
“You’re,” fucking fantastic, “not so bad yourself.”
“I like getting you off.”
“Ditto.”
Our shoulders touch. Our eyes meet. Our breaths mingle.
She’s going to kiss me.
Is she going to kiss me?
She acts like she’s going to kiss me.
“I have to be up for an early flight tomorrow,” she says.
“Oh.”
She’s not going to kiss me.
“Okay.” Guess that’s my cue to leave.
I stand.
She stands.
We’re naked.
I pick up my clothes and put them on. She busies herself with her phone, which manager Richard must’ve dutifully charged as she demanded earlier, apparently texting someone. I finish dressing and point to the bathroom. “Mind if I …?”
“Go ahead.”
As soon as the door shuts behind me, I grab the vanity and hold on tight. The mirror reveals red skin, but my face is mostly okay. A little makeup will hide the faded handprint tomorrow if it decides to linger. Beaten doesn’t come close to describing the rest of me.
Did I let her down? Did the lack of an audience make sex less thrilling for her? Was I not resilient enough?
I dip my head and splash cold water on my face. Then I use the toilet. I avoid my reflection on the way out.
Lizzie sits on the bed, clothed, still fucking with her phone. The strap-on gear out of sight, the room looks as it did when we first got here, like no one just beat the shit out of me, fucked me stupid, or humiliated me. It’s simply a happy little hotel room where people sleep, wake up, shower, and move on with their lives.
“Ready to go?” a male voice asks from the couch.
I whirl around. Shit. Richard. Clothed in the same expensive suit from before, he sits with one leg crossed over the opposite knee and an arm draped across the back of the couch. Guess I’m not the only one Lizzie likes to push around. Charging her phone, getting rid of her one-night-stands. He’s definitely her bitch too.
“Ah, yeah. Thank you.” I check my watch. Fuck, it’s two o’clock.
He stands. I grab my purse. Lizzie types.
He opens the door for me. I walk through and glance back. She doesn’t notice.
Richard drives me home.
To a bus.
With cocks and balls on the wheels.
Coffee Confessions
Richard pulls Lizzie’s Jaguar into the parking lot about a hundred yards from the Killer Buzz Float bus like I asked. I assume Lizzie couldn’t be bothered to take time away from her beauty rest to drive me herself, though neither she nor Richard confirmed or denied my theory.
It feels like New Orleans all over again.
What the hell is her problem? One minute she’s hot to trot all over my body, and the next, I’m invisible.
If she comes knocking again—at this point, I seriously doubt she will—I have to decide whether she’s worth the heart trauma. Every time I fall in with her, she leaves me miraculously healed on one level and critically wounded on a host of others. And the irony? The physical abuse saves me. The emotional crap, not so much.
A woman in my position can’t afford head shit. If I merely serve as a pawn on Queen Lizzie’s chessboard, the price tag to be with her is way outside my budget. I’ve worked too hard to get KBF where they are to lose everything for a hot piece of ass with freckles to kill for.
Fucking freckles.
I shake Lizzie’s hotness out of my head as the car rolls to a stop.
“Thank you for the ride,” I say to Richard and pop the door handle.
“Sleep well,” he replies.
No questions answered. Or fucks given.
Screw this shit.
I get out, shut the door, and creep toward the bus for what I hope will be a couple hours of shut-eye before the world wakes up. God knows, Letty will be lighting things on fire, getting arrested, flooding the floor with squirt juice, or some other such nonsense at the butt-crack of dawn. I have to don my game face for whatever she throws my way.
Richard waits for me to board the bus before driving away. Bless his heart.
Soft snores and long, sleepy breaths tell me I’m safe (for now) from “Where have you been?” accusations as I tiptoe to my bunk. I shrug out of my jacket, toss it to the foot of my mattress, and quietly open the trundle drawer for some pajamas. I haven’t been to the Laundromat for myself in over a week, but I damn sure take care of everyone else’s dirty, smelly, rock star laundry. Because good managers handle the shit nobody else thinks of, even when it reeks of sweat or is saturated with questionable b
odily fluids.
Sigh.
I gingerly pad to the bathroom, change clothes, brush my teeth. Into the too-small bed I crawl, phone clutched in hand, mind eddying in too many directions, body sore as shit. Tomorrow will be worse. I lie staring at the ceiling for ten minutes, wide awake.
Miles. He’s sure to be asleep, but I text him anyway. He can reply in the morning.
You set me up, I send. Again.
Surprisingly, he begins typing back right away. I did. I was looking out for you.
I’m a big girl, Miles. You should’ve asked.
I’m sorry, Jill. I thought you and L would be a good match after NOLA.
She asked you for my number?
Yeah.
Don’t do me any more favors.
Did you see her? What happened?
I don’t reply.
Jillian?
I roll over. “Fuck you, Miles,” I whisper into the darkness.
Too buzzed from the simultaneous thrill and total downer of playing Lizzie’s bitch, I don’t sleep a wink. I’d toss and turn, but it hurts too much.
When seven o’clock shows its ugly mug, I get up for a mug of my own. Of coffee, that is.
We’re almost out of Toombs’s favorite dark roast. I mentally note to make a trip to the grocery store in whichever city we land in next. I can’t even remember. Shaking the last of the grounds into the filter, I flinch at the throbbing in my boob as the inside of my arm grazes it.
“Fuck!” I whisper-shout, cupping the poor, sad mammary sac.
“Coffee doesn’t usually get hot until you turn on the machine,” Toombs says quietly behind me.
I spin around. His silvery eyes aren’t quite open for business yet, and his short hair is bed-messy.
“I didn’t burn myself.”
He reaches around me, grabs the gallon jug of distilled water, and fills the reservoir in back. “I know.”
“You don’t know shit,” I grumble, flicking the goddamn machine on.
“I know we’re running low on joe.” He folds his arms over his naked, tattoo-slathered chest and kicks a bare foot over the other as he leans against the cupboard.
“It’s on my list.”
“And something’s got you worked up.”
“Not in the way you think.”
He lifts a brow and pummels me with a dubious look. “My spidey sense says otherwise.”
I nod toward the couches in the back. He and the mouthwatering scent of freshly brewing coffee follow my sorry, limping self down the aisle.
Scowling as I sit—goddamn, my ass smarts—I start to speak, but Toombs leans down and touches my cheek. The hard pads of his fingers feel surprisingly soft after Lizzie’s perfect manicure proved how rough a lover’s touch can be. Concern whittles lines into his forehead. “What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
I close my eyes for a second. When I open them, his hand is gone, but the warmth lingers just under my skin.
“No.” I shift, searching for a comfortable position that can’t seem to coexist with Jillian Frost’s foray into the world of BDSM aftershocks. “Yes.”
Toombs hovers over me, a tower of menacing tattoo ink and gunmetal eyes shot through with bullets of vengeance. “Who do I need to school?”
I shake my head. “Nobody. Sit down.”
He does. Reluctantly. “You shouldn’t be in that much pain after playing.”
“It’s just a few bruises. They’ll heal.”
“I’m not talking about the bruises.” He draws a circle in the air around his eyes. “It’s here.”
I look away. “I’ll be fine.”
The sputter of the coffeepot signals the end of the brewing cycle. Toombs stands. “Be right back.”
A minute later, he returns with two steaming cups of coffee. His black, mine loaded with cream, just the way I like it. He passes the mug to me and resumes his seat. I nod my thanks and sip.
God, coffee makes everything better. A cigarette would be the cherry—
No. Fuck the cigarette.
“I’ve seen this before,” he says.
“Seen what?”
“The wrong kind of pain. It’s supposed to be physical, but sometimes it digs in too deep, beyond the surface where you can power through shit, and it … gets to you. Here.” He rests a fist on his chest. His gaze darts to Rax’s bunk and returns quickly to his cup for another swallow.
He hasn’t “seen this before.” He’s lived it.
Leaning closer, he drops his voice. “Submission is a gift. The person receiving it shouldn’t acknowledge it. They should fucking celebrate the hottest damn present they ever got, not piss on it like it’s a box of used, broken fucking crayons.”
Toombs is right. I gave Lizzie my body, mind, and soul. She gave me a shrug and a ride home. And she didn’t even drive.
“The natural reaction to uncomfortable stimuli is to avoid it,” I say. “So, that’s what I’m gonna do.”
I think.
“Avoidance has its advantages, but sometimes not all involved parties get the same memo. You can’t control what’s outside of you, especially if the outside is fraught with an entire monologue’s worth of its own drama.” His eyes meet and hold mine. “Self-preservation, Jillian. When that shit kicks in, listen.”
“Okay.” I drain my coffee in a few big gulps and stand up to get more. “Thanks for this.” I hold up the cup.
He ignores the mug, keeping his attention on me. “You’re welcome.”
I’m not sure I could survive this job without our morning talks. How did I get along without them before?
“Uhhh!” Grunt. Groan. Moan. “God damn you, sun,” Letty yells from her bunk. “Take your rays and go blind somebody else. Like child molesters or dicknut politicians who need a little karma to put them in their place.” She tumbles out on all fours and slowly crawls down the aisle. Long, red locks brush the nasty floor (must mop later—it’s been forever) as she makes her way like a rock climber toward a mountain’s peak. Her butt cheeks peek out of her too-short sleeping shorts; her cleavage taunts from her tight, stretchy camisole.
It’s a good thing Letty’s such a punk.
With each advance, a grumble follows. Until she lifts her head and sees me. Eyes ringed with last night’s black mascara, she pauses to study me. She eases to her haunches like some kind of musical panda, hikes up a knee, and rests an arm on it.
“Well, if it isn’t our manager. What’s your name again? Juicy? Janie? Jizzo? I forgot. Seems like it’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”
“Har, har, har.” I hook the empty coffee mug handle through my pinkie and hitch my other hand to my hip.
Letty climbs to her feet and dusts off. “You know, you’ve been backstage after every single concert we’ve put on,” she says in a quiet, rather accusing voice. “Until last night.”
I raise my chin and press my lips together.
She studies her fingernails. “I used to brag to the rest of the band about how lucky we are to have a manager who’s always there for us, no matter what.”
Pressure collapses my lungs. “I had a meeting.”
“I got the text.”
Toombs skirts around our little powwow with his empty coffee cup. “Ease up, Letty. We’re getting our money’s worth with Mom.”
“Oh, I know she’s worth every penny and then some.” Letty keeps her focus on me. “It’s just that I got a little disappointment in my eye after the show last night.” She rubs away an invisible tear.
I pat her cheek. “You kids are growing up so fast, I thought I’d try leaving you alone for a few hours. But if you can’t handle it …” I follow Toombs to the coffeepot. Letty turns to watch us. “Want me to ask Freddie to babysit you next time I have to go out?”
On cue, our bus driver deafens the bus with a thunderous snore from the bunk up front.
“Freddie’s cute and all, but not as sweet and loving as you, Mom.” I catch a hint of dejection in her eyes just before Letty turns away for the bathroo
m.
Fuck. I grit my teeth. Toombs shakes his head, as if to say, “Don’t worry about it.”
But I do.
I do worry.
Because these people, this band, this job is my life. I gave up living in comfort for them. Together, we’ve survived fired bandmates, personality conflicts, lover’s quarrels, hospital stays, rehab stints, personnel changes, two tours, and a record deal. Though they pay me, I don’t work for these idiots. I rear them. They’re my kids, and I—
I love them.
So, yeah. I worry when I let them down.
But, like Miles said, I also have to take care of my own needs from time to time, and this just happens to be one of those times.
Why couldn’t my midlife crisis have manifested in a desire for a fast car, a trip around the world, or a hot young babe to keep my bed warm at night? Oh wait. The hot young babe is a big part of my problem.
The bathroom cubicle door closes, and Letty commences singing in the toilet like she didn’t just call me out for being an asshole. Business as usual? Only on the surface.
Jinx’s bunk curtain sluices open, and she emerges, rubbing her eyes. “What’s all the commotion?”
Toombs’s face brightens. He leaves the coffee for her—no small thing. Because … coffee. He enfolds her in his painted arms. They kiss, morning breath and all. I surreptitiously watch them as I refill my cup and stir in some cream.
Their lips don’t just meet. They meld and forge new metals for a stronger foundation. Tenderness weaves between them. Adoration on both sides. Muted obsession.
How does she feed his … predilections in bed? What tools does she use to pass along the obvious love she has for him? Are they the same floggers and slaps Lizzie employs? Does some million-dollar company make special props for couples who love each other versus those who just want to get off? If so, I want to buy stock in that shit.
Jinx and Toombs love each other. Rax and Eve love each other. Hell, even Letty and Shades love each other.