Victory RUN: Collected Victory RUN 1, 2, 3

by Devon Hartford

  Dubs dribbles slowly back to the free throw circle. “What’d you say earlier on the phone about that shorty Savannah?”

  “I said she was lame. A total waste of time.”

  “When we sparred Saturday morning, you said she was tight. Had a rockin’ body and shit.” He bounces the ball for emphasis. “Said you couldn’t wait to bang her Saturday night.”

  “Yeah, but when I took her out, I found out she had rocks in her head. You could hear them banging together like a bowling alley when she walked.”

  He chuckles, “But you ain’t fuckin’ her head.”

  “Dude, when was the last time you got a blowjob? I’m not putting my dick anywhere near a bowling alley.”

  He cackles, “That don’t make no sense, dawg.”

  “But you’re laughing,” I smile.

  “You know what I mean, playah.”

  “What can I say,” I shrug, “Savannah was twelve strikes short of a perfect game.”

  “Yo, ain’t a perfect game twelve strikes?”

  I nod.

  Dubs chuckles, “I get it. She dumb.” He bounces the ball once, “What about that honey you met Friday? The stripper?”

  I laugh, “She’s not a stripper. I told you this morning she just has a stripper name. Victory.”

  “Shit, son, every girl you date is a stripper. Or looks like one.” He bounces the ball, “Victory got rocks for brains?”

  “Naw, she’s pretty damn smart. Amazing guitarist.”

  “She hot?”

  “Smokin’.”

  “You ever find her online?”

  “I bumped into her last night when I was out with Savannah.”

  He gasps, “No shit! They fight?!”

  I smirk, “Yeah, bro, cat claws and everything.”

  “Now I know you shittin’ me.”

  “They didn’t fight,” I grin.

  “You get Shorty’s number this time?”

  “I took her home.”

  His eyes goggle, “Say WHAT?! You banged Savannah and Victory? The same night? Shit, playah, that some serious Don Juan shit right there.”

  I shake my head, “I didn’t bang either one. I cut it short with Savannah and hooked up with Victory after. We had pizza and chilled at my pad all night.”

  “And you didn’t ball her? I thought you said she was hot. She have some stank ass pussy or some shit? Crabs and lobsters crawlin’ out like a horror movie and shit?” He laughs hard.

  “No, man,” I chuckle. “She didn’t have crabs or a stinky pussy. I didn’t even see her pussy.”

  Dubs suddenly looks very confused and worried.

  He says, “Do I know you? Is your name Kellan Burns?” He weaves and bobs in front of me while clutching the basketball in both hands and scrutinizing my face. “You look like Kellan Burns. You act like Kellan Burns. You smell like Kellan Burns,” he wrinkles his nose comically. “But the Kellan Burns I know don’t take home no hotties without fuckin’ ’em.”

  I chuckle, “I’m the real Kellan Burns.”

  “You must be sick then. That’s it.” He puts a palm on my forehead like he’s checking my temperature. “But you don’t have a fever…” He suddenly snaps his fingers in my face. “I know! You done lost your mind, son!”

  “I’m not losing my mind,” I grin.

  His eyes goggle even wider. “Oh shit! You like her! You like her! You in love or some shit?!”

  I shake my head, “Not even close. She’s just a cool girl. I didn’t feel like fuckin’ is all.”

  Dubs gives me a shrewd look and nods doubtfully several times. “When you seein’ her again?”

  Sudden anger tenses every muscle in my body. In two seconds I’m going to explode into shards of rage that will impale everyone in a hundred foot radius, including Dubs. I growl, “I’m not.”

  “You sure?” He bounces the ball once.

  “Yup,” I grunt. My jaw grinds. I can feel the muscles bunching. I need to punch something.

  (Giselle)

  Dubs bounces the ball again and narrows his eyes, inspecting my face. His voice is suddenly calm and compassionate, “You sure you not into her? Cuz you actin’ like you sprung, dawg.”

  I shake my head, “I’m not falling for Victory, man.”

  “You ain’t foolin’ me, dawg. You actin’ like you was when you met Giselle, yo.”

  I stop dead in my tracks. Every muscle in my body freezes to ice.

  (Giselle)

  Dubs holds the basketball against his hip and rests a comforting hand on my shoulder. “Don’t let some stripper bitch named Victory under your skin, dawg. She gonna fuck your shit up good. You know what I’m sayin’?”

  I give Dubs a cold threatening stare, “Back off, man.” I’m a second away from going off on

  (Giselle)

  Dubs.

  He ignores my warning. “No way I’m lettin’ you fall for some new bitch gonna do you wrong like Giselle did, Kellan. Feel me?”

  I hiss through my clenched teeth. I can’t look Dubs in the eyes because I feel like mine will burn a hole through whatever I look at right now, including him. I pin my eyes on the asphalt basketball court.

  “Giselle a bitch, dawg,” Dubs says quietly. “A low class ho, yo. And she still under your skin. You gotta forget about her. Sooner the better.”

  I growl, “She wasn’t a bitch.”

  “Yeah, whatever. I was there, son. I saw what she did. That was some low class shit, yo. Low class.”

  I don’t want to talk about Giselle. I don’t want to think about Giselle. I want to put

  (Victory)

  Giselle completely out of my mind.

  I grunt, “Pass me the fucking leather.”

  “All right, playah,” Dubs says cautiously and steps away from me. He bounce passes the ball.

  I take it to the net.

  Nobody gets the best of me.

  (Giselle)

  I’m not going through the same shit twice.

  Fuck Victory.

  I don’t need her.

  RUN 3

  Chapter 52

  VICTORY

  “Victory, I’m going to take you someplace special,” Julian Whittaker says, “It’s something of a secret…” he arches an eyebrow, “…but you have to sign the consent waiver first…”

  I snicker, “You make it sound like we’re going to do something illegal, like go to a sex club.”

  “Oh,” he warns, “it will be illegal. If you don’t sign first…”

  “Is it dangerous?” I ask suggestively.

  Julian cocks his head thoughtfully and his lips ease into a wicked grin, “It could be dangerous, but only to your taste buds. Now sign,” he says insistently.

  I grin, “Are you going to hold my dinner hostage tonight if I don’t sign?”

  “Yes.” He holds out an expensive golden fountain pen, waiting for me to take it. “And I’ll hold you hostage after dinner if you don’t sign the contract,” he smirks.

  I say flirtatiously, “Will you hold me against my will until I beg for release…?”

  He grins and arches an eyebrow, “If I don’t get my release form, you won’t be getting any release from me…”

  I giggle.

  The contract sits on the edge of the long marble island in the kitchen of Julian’s modernist mansion in the Hollywood Hills. Late afternoon light pours through a wall of windows that reveal the lush green backyard garden surrounding a rectangular pool.

  “Sign it,” Julian orders. His commanding presence only makes him slightly more sexy than he already is. Then Goldenblond slowly thrusts his fountain pen in my face. Julian’s pen is rigid, golden, and proud. Just like Goldenblond himself.

  Because the day is so warm, I’m wearing a V neck t-shirt which is a tan heather, not a concert shirt (for once), frayed denim cutoffs that are way too short for prime time (Daisy Duke would be shocked, Bo & Luke Duke would be drooling, but Julian is way too cool to drool), and ankle strap flat sandals. Leather bracelets adorn my wrists a
nd a pewter feather pendant dangles below my boobs on a necklace. Auburn tinted aviator sunglasses rest on top of my head, holding my long hair out of my face.

  I totally don’t look like a rocker chick.

  Okay, I vaguely look like a rocker chick.

  But more like a 1970’s hippie rocker instead of my usual hair metal vibe.

  I can’t help it.

  I’m a rocker chick no matter what I wear.

  “Well?” Goldenblond says expectantly. He still holds his golden fountain pen inches from my lips. Not a golden showers fountain pen, that would be gross, but a rigid golden-barreled pen. I wonder if the ink cartridge is filled with fancy pearlescent gel ink or just regular old writing ink? The only way to find out is to see what squirts out the tip.

  When I sign my name with it.

  Because it’s just a pen.

  Right?

  We all know I’m only talking about Julian’s writing implement. Right, ladies? You all totally know what I mean. I’m talking about the kind of writing implement used to seal the deal.

  A golden barreled pen.

  It’s just a pen.

  Seriously.

  I grin and chew my lip while my eyes dart between the pen and Julian’s emerald orbs. Not the orbs between his legs, beneath his own golden fountain pen. I’m sure those orbs are made of the same gold as his pen, not emeralds. I’m talking about the exquisite emerald orbs set deeply in his finely structured brow, the orbs glimmering with intensity as his gaze glides languorously between my eyes and my lips.

  Julian chuckles, “Sign the consent form. I already emailed my rough mix of the erectile dysfunction commercial track over to the ad agency.” He pauses and frowns, “What did you call it the day we recorded it?”

  I giggle, “A dick hardener pill?”

  He nods and grins, “Yes, the dick hardener commercial. I sent off the music. The account manager overseeing the dick hardener project is excited about our new version, which includes your guitar work, so I really need you to sign the waiver. Otherwise, the agency can’t pitch it to the pharmaceutical company.”

  Now we’re definitely not talking about pens!

  “Why not?” I ask innocently.

  “Because, if the people at the pharmaceutical company hear your version and like it, they’re going to assume they can use it. But if you don’t sign the waiver, they can’t use it. Then they’ll be pissed. Hard dick pissed,” Julian quips.

  Nope, not talking about pens!

  I snicker, “You sure like to talk about hard dicks.”

  “What can I say?” Julian chuckles, “I’m a hard dick kind of guy. No soft dicks allowed in my house.”

  Until now, I wasn’t sure if Julian had much of a sense of humor, but apparently he does. I say, “You know, with all those dick hardener pills guys are taking by the handful these days, they must have dicks made of granite.”

  Julian quips, “Then they are welcome in my home any time. Now sign the waiver,” he says insistently, “Or I’m going to show you why you never want to incur the wrath of a hard dick.”

  “Oh?” I gasp coquettishly. “Why?”

  His emerald eyes shine, green glints that flick sunlight into mine as he narrows his lids and grins, “Don’t make me show you,” he threatens. “Respect the dick.”

  I’m leaning both arms against the long cool marble countertop island when he slides his hand down my forearm, which sends shivers up to my shoulder. He lifts my hand off the countertop and slides his hot golden fountain pen into my waiting fingers.

  The pen is hot because he’s been holding it in his hands, but it was already hard before he handed it to me.

  This time, I’m not talking about a hard dick.

  It’s just a pen.

  I promise.

  For, ahem, signing contracts.

  “Sign,” he smiles.

  I notice that Julian’s hand is very warm as it grips mine and I’m getting very hot. This was not how I imagined the signing of the consent waiver would go. But I guess I should’ve known better. When you start off a relationship working on dick hardener music together, dicks tend to get hard.

  Heck, everything gets hard.

  Even fountain pens.

  The kind with pearlescent ink.

  I squeeze Julian’s golden pen in the sheath of my fingers while his thumb caresses the taut bud forming in the crease of flesh where my curled index finger grips the shaft of his golden pen. His thumb turns slow circles, going around and around and around my knuckle’s fleshy bud of folded skin, and it’s not erotic at all.

  Because we’re still talking about pens and hands, people. They’re used for signing contracts, which is purely a business arrangement. And we all know not to mix business with pleasure.

  This is strictly business.

  Seriously.

  “Ooh…” I purr and lower my lashes seductively, still gazing at Julian’s emerald orbs. Yeah, I’m not getting into this at all. I crinkle my nose, “Your pen is so hard…”

  I’m such a tease.

  Julian shakes his head like he’s half-drugged, unlocking our gaze, but he’s smiling. He reluctantly releases my hand at last, breaking the spell.

  “Sign,” he orders. He slides his hands into his pockets like that’s the only safe place for them at the moment.

  I sigh and shrug my shoulders, reluctantly turning off the flirt.

  I glance at the contract.

  I mull over what Julian said earlier about what happens if the ad agency sends my guitar track to the pharmaceutical company. Honestly, when you consider the distraction of Julian’s golden pennilingus, I’m surprised I remember any of what he told me in the last five minutes. I guess I was multi-tasking.

  Anyway, if I refuse to sign this consent waiver, I could mess up Julian’s entire project with the ad agency. I suddenly feel powerful. Without my agreement, it’s back to the recording studio for Julian. Although I barely know him, I already have the strong sense that Julian is used to getting his way.

  Ms. Mischievous, one of the more vocal voices in my internal committee, is curious to see what poor wittle Juwian will do if he doesn’t get his way. Yes, I want to see him squirm. Or throw a tantrum. On him, it might be very sexy. I also think it might do Julian some good to have things go off the rails once in awhile. I swear by it. What did Johnny say to me at the shop the other day? When one door closes, another opens?

  Look at all the fun I’ve had since Scott kicked me out of Skin Trade.

  Then Ms. Sensible, one of the presiding members of my mental committee, reminds me that Julian has already paid me a thousand bucks for my guitar work, and I don’t want to go back on my word.

  Ms. Sensible is not the fun one.

  Sigh.

  But she’s good at reading contracts.

  I pick up the consent waiver from the countertop and glance over it.

  Yesterday, I went into Big Momma’s to use their computer to read up about session musician waivers. I have a vague idea of what to look for on this one.

  Julian’s Session Musician Agreement doesn’t say anything about future royalties for me. It just mentions the $1,000 he already paid me. That’s okay. Because it’s not like the commercial jingle for a dick hardener pill is going to suddenly shoot to the top of the iTunes download charts and I’m going to miss out on royalties.

  I take the pen from Julian, which really is nothing but a pen, and scribble my name on the contract.

  Sealing the deal.

  With a pen.

  Okay, okay. It’s stiff and golden, just like Goldenblond Julian, but it’s only a pen.

  “Thank you,” Julian smiles. “I’ll have Colette email a copy to the agency today. Now you’re officially a session musician, Victory.” He holds out his hand for me to shake. “How do you feel?”

  I almost say, “Spent,” but instead I shake his hand and grin, “Like a working musician!” It’s pretty damn awesome.

  “I assure you, Victory Payne…” his beautifully sculpt
ed lips spread to reveal his pristine white teeth, “this is only the beginning…”

  His smile is genuine and pleasingly suggestive but there is something vaguely ominous about his words.

  I’m not going to dwell on it.

  I say innocently, “Let’s go get that dinner you promised me.”

  He smiles devilishly, “It would be my pleasure…”

  Who doesn’t like pleasure?

  Ms. Sensible, who likes to think she runs my internal committee 24/7 (but doesn’t) frowns like the spinster she is, and raises her hand so she can be counted amongst the pleasure haters.

  I ignore her.

  Pleasure, here I come!

  Chapter 53

  VICTORY

  Outside, we walk down Julian’s square stone steps to the driveway beneath his house. His black Ferrari 458 Spider is parked under the hot sun. Julian jogs around to the passenger side and opens the door for me, “Madam,” he grins.

  “I’m nobody’s madam,” I laugh.

  “Would you rather I call you m’lady?”

  “That makes me sound old,” I grin.

  Julian mocks a British accent, “I rather thought it made you sound like the queen.”

  I chuckle and slide into the leather bucket seat of the Ferrari. If Julian wasn’t so damn dashingly handsome, I’d give him shit about his accent. But I’d rather just look at him.

  He closes the door gently and walks around to the driver’s side. “I think this is top down weather, don’t you?”

  It’s definitely warm enough. “Sure.”

  Julian presses a button and the Ferrari’s roof folds inside the back of the car like a Transformer robot. “Ready?”

  “Tally ho!” I joke.

  Julian starts the Ferrari and it purrs. It’s not American Muscle like I grew up around with my dad, but it’ll do.

  The Ferrari creeps down the curved driveway until we’re on the street and the front gate rolls shut behind us.

  Then Julian fires up the Ferrari’s afterburners and I’m pushed into the leather seat back as the car rockets down the winding road. The surrounding greenery and the houses in the Hollywood Hills are a multi-colored blur.