Rock Bottom (The Handler Series Book 1)

by Angie M. Brashears

  Platinum Penny blonde or nothing, is it?

  Caving under pressure and insecurity, I said fuck it and bleached my own inky black locks, turning myself prematurely gray.

  Which somehow works for this stressful period of my life. It’s a ruse, all off it is. My real face looks like the scream painting from Edvard Munch as I stare into his eyes.

  And I don’t miss the look of triumph as he drives the final nail into the coffin.

  Instead of doing the chivalrous thing and backing off the bitch, he slides his traitorous dick in, all the way to the hilt. I know that telltale sign of pleasure. He’s hit bottom.

  ****

  Still feverish from the fucking, he asks. “That’s it then?”

  I’m beginning to feel more than a little sick. Seems their foreplay may have involved snooping into my private affairs.

  “Why are my personal papers out?” I ask. My stomach churns as I gather my birth certificate, social security card, and my checkbook. Why didn’t I listen when he still had my best interest at heart and gotten the damn safe like he asked?

  Avoiding the question, he goes right to anger.

  “How can you turn it on and off like that? Aren’t you pissed? Anything? You’re like a fucking statue!” He yells.

  “I’ll miss your cock,” I say honestly, but that’s all I’ll allow before sealing off the chamber of my heart labeled happily ever after with Rusty.

  “You’re never here anyway,” he scuffs.

  “I’m working. Do you like that new soak pool in the back? Is it to your exact specifications, Rusty?”

  We both look out at the infinity pool shaped like a guitar.

  “Must have been fun coming up with the design. In a pot haze with your buddies, you didn’t even stop to think of my feelings, did you?”

  He blinks, still not getting it.

  “It’s a Flying V. I play acoustic, you dick!” I yell back.

  Throwing his hands up, he sneers. “Here we go. Back to you.”

  Defeated, I say, “It’s never about me.”

  Quiet, he says, “Really. You took the very best part of me, you know that? There’s nothing left here for you.”

  Pointing toward the bedroom, I say, “That’s because you gave it all away. She could be anyone taking what’s mine, but it ultimately comes down to this. She will never be me.”

  The ‘she’ in question appears in the doorway, wearing one of my jackets and my stomach drops. Not the imitation I’d feared, she’s the other half of me.

  I hate the fucking smirk on her face.

  Civilly, I nod. “Penny.”

  Wearing my canned for fans smile, I add, “Keep the jacket, it looks good on you. Matter of fact keep my sloppy seconds too.”

  She looks surprised, almost as if she expected me to be more of a fighter. But I’m in no mood to scrap today.

  My lower back is aching from these trademark boots. There’s a suspicious scratchiness in my throat, that may either be a cold of the end of my singing career if I strained the old chords today.

  This is what I get. I let someone who’s only reference was, ‘that’s a wild one,’ be in charge of me.

  “It’s my place, but I’ll leave. The stench of betrayal here turns my stomach.” On the way to my impending bender, I stop at the liquor cabinet and fill my bag with as many bottles as it will hold.

  Chapter 3

  NovaKain

  Sure, there were knocks on the door, pleas to get it together. But I ignored them all.

  “You’re disappointing your fans.”

  I’m disappointing myself.

  In my sober moments, I knew this wasn’t who I wanted to be. I’d strive to get better, but getting better, meant facing reality. Nothing good lasts. And if I’m honest with myself, Rusty was only good for one thing…and it sure wasn’t stimulating conversation. I preferred my made up happily ever after to the truth. Maybe he never really loved me at all.

  Reality sucks. My reality consisted of baggy sweats, No Doubt on repeat, and too much alcohol. I was in a Grand Master Funk and still I wrote. At first, it was nothing more than ransom notes and death threats. But buried in the wallow were a few pearls.

  By the time the owner of Rebel Records came knocking, with the threat of a lawsuit, I knew it was time to admit I was powerless and ask for help.

  He listened to my story of woe. Instead of commiserating, he looked absolutely cheery. “That’s all? Oh, poor girl, you should have said something. That’s an easy fix. You just need to get happy.”

  Two phone calls later, I was. And my supply of bliss never ran out.

  Bad girl, that’s what the press dubbed me. If you hear it enough times, you start to believe it. Whether feeding into it, or living up to it, I became her. The epitome of the bad girl that wandered the furthest from the Whimsy fold.

  Once free from my bindings and left to my own devices, I may have gone a little too far.

  But what a ride.

  Trendy magazines came at me with ideas for photo shoots that took me right to the edge and I gladly jumped. Bundled in corduroy jumpers and peter pan collars for far too long, I had a statement to make. NovaKain stands in no one’s shadow. Unfortunately, that statement needed to be made topless, with only flower petals to cover my nipples.

  In a sea of enablers, I was the Titanic and sinking fast. Left to my own devices every hanger on, user and loser in town wanted to jump on board. If they were fun and brought party favors, I let them.

  With bigger buses, the sob fest continued through states. When my heartbreak waned, a new makeup artist was brought in to make me look sadder. It turns out pastels aren’t my thing, I look better in grief.

  The show? It must go on right? Tears streaked down my cheeks as I fumbled through the words of rough notes I’d jotted during my heartbreak. Pouring my soul out, the audience even hummed along with me over broken chords and missed notes. If only my fans knew the songs I’m singing are about me. When I was twelve, I became the property of Whimsy. Once the check cleared, my parents took off on a second honeymoon while I shot 12-hour days, shaking my keister with hot pink snowballs superglued to it and sang about brushing my teeth. I got my first lesson in divorce at the age of seventeen. From my parents. I got my freedom, and they got to keep all the money they’d stolen from me.

  Rusty crushed me, my record went platinum, and my parent’s vacation continued. It wasn’t like they never thought of me. Yes, I’d get care packages, a grass skirt from Hawaii. It was cute, I hung it in my closet next to the kilt they’d sent from Scotland. Said they were out promoting me.

  Every so often, I’m asked to sing that bubblegum shit, and I do. But always as the encore. It must be the last one of the set because once I hit the last note, my hips bruised from shaking my ass, I’m too wrecked to continue. It’s for my parents, an anthem to their absence. One that only my money can buy.

  I was a nonstop spectacle. But the funny thing is? I didn’t hit the top forty until my heart was broken.

  Chapter 4

  NovaKain

  Warning, Rock Bottom ahead.

  That’s the label my stalksistant wants to slap on my ass whenever I’m out of her sight. More of a number one fan than a personal assistant situation, Kiki usually supplies the men and party favors.

  But not this weekend.

  My presence isn’t required in Los Angeles until Sunday morning for soundcheck, but where’s the fun in discipline?

  It’s the Grammys, for goodness sakes. Pre-parties, after hours and let’s face it, tons of available men. My therapist would say I’m rationalizing, but fuck it, I’ve earned this break. Two days of down time before the show. I didn’t work this hard for this long not to go off the deep end. It’s not like I’m going to cannonball or anything. I’ll probably just stick a toe in.

  Being a good girl is a lot of work. At least for me, it is. I’d done everything the Grammy Gremlin’s had stipulated. Stayed at the beach house, aka out of trouble, with my sober coach, Kiki. I ate
organic, did yoga, and fell into bed next to her, every night. They don’t need to know everything.

  With the rented limo idling at the curb, now seems like the perfect time to let Kiki in on my little secret.

  Breezy and easy, I say. “Hey Kik. I don’t want to alarm you but brace yourself. I’m running from my own life. Not forever-just a vacation-and you’re not invited.”

  To soften the blow, I threw an air kiss her way.

  Which she flinched from like it was a missile.

  She clears her throat. But there’s still a bit of that pesky frustration present when she says. “TBH, I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  Coming from a girl that flags down a rock star’s bus, and gets on, she’s got my attention.

  “To be honest, I couldn’t agree more, but it’s happening. Besides, what could go wrong?” I’d said to the pleas of my stalksistant.

  “Everything.” She’d said miserably.

  There’s really nothing more to say and she knows it. I’m an adult and it’s blatantly obvious that I’m all set to go off the grid, but that doesn’t stop her from staring at me, relentlessly, as I shove my fake ID into my overstuffed go bag.

  Pissed that I have to do everything, I remind her. “You were supposed to do this last night.”

  “Oh no. Don’t pull that master and servant bullshit with me, Nova. I passed out at the same time you did.”

  “Why haven’t I fired you yet?” I retort.

  “You did. But I thought I’d wait until you were sober to put it in the books,” she said.

  “And?” I ask.

  Smiling sweetly, she jabs back. “Still waiting for the right moment. If the opportunity ever arises, I’ll make sure to grab it. Now, go. Have your pause. We’ll deal with it all after you win that Grammy.”

  “Farewell, Kiki Boloba.” Despite the sourpuss face and brewing silent treatment, I wave with my usual exuberance, from the safety of the limo.

  Exasperated, she yells, “At least tell me where you’ll be in case of, you know, an emergency?”

  With a smirk, I say, “LA Fuckticipation.”

  With the goodbye’s out of the way, I lean back into the plush seat and let out the breath I’ve been holding.

  Some lessons just need to be learned and Kiki was one of them. Stalkers and assistants don’t mix. Sexy, flirty, fun fling until it wasn’t. I’m surprised she didn’t tie me to a chair when I’d mentioned I was leaving. Maybe she doesn’t have my best interest at heart, but she’s a great kisser.

  Still, I check the back window to make sure we’re not being followed.

  ****

  LA Fuckticipation…wouldn’t that make a good song?

  But it’s never going to happen. Unless I can think of a more radio friendly word that fits the bill. LA Humpticipation doesn’t quite do it for me. Not like LA Fuckticipation does.

  First of all, it sounds like an outdoor concert with random bands performing, that you can’t remember the name of, but love every song they play. Girls with flowers in their hair, passing out edibles from trays. Fishnet t-shirts for sale.

  Bodies twisting as waves shimmer in the moonlight, um, does nothing for me. Let me rephrase, definitely somewhere with grass. A little cushion for the pushin and bonus, it doesn’t get stuck in the cracks.

  Let’s see, a meadow. Some random farmer’s back forty. And as long as we’re dreaming, maybe a bubbling brook. Just don’t drink from it. Upstream, the ladies are doing a quick squat and shine between dance partners.

  These fantasies are good for one thing…foreplay. The ritual never changes, because it’s the score that I live for. The prize at the bottom of the Cracker Jack box.

  Sex, it’s all I think about. Let’s be honest, some study done back in the day, said men think about sex on average every seven seconds and women, only ten thoughts a day.

  Is that even right?

  If those women are anything like me, it’s possible.

  When I think of sex, I tend to linger. Build the anticipation. I’m more interested in the thrill that builds while standing behind the yellow line waiting for the ride. Will it be fast or slow? Up and down or side to side. My thoughts have been known to turn into all day fuck fantasies involving a naked guy on the cover of some book. Auto pleasure being the word of the hour.

  Point is, my thoughts are riddled with sex.

  Lower back hurts? Couldn’t be the shoes, maybe I just need to bang one out.

  Bored? Nothing on TV, and my thoughts turn to my vibrator and wonder if he misses me.

  I think about sex when I’m high. With a big, goofy grin, I find myself thinking. You know what would be great right now? A big giant helping of Jonny James.

  Rhythmic touches and random caresses send me off to slumber better than any bland glass of warm milk ever has.

  Point is, I think about sex a lot.

  Am I the only one that wonders about the size of the bulge in the front of the waiter’s pants, unfolded?

  Am I the only one that checks out every ass of the men I pass on the street?

  Sex with a hot stranger, put it on the Nova Needs list.

  When someone says, ‘She’s always DTF’, they’re wrong. I’m always down to get ready to fuck. Planning every detail of the mission, I’m like the Jason Bourne of Sex Games.

  From the hot wax that goes from the front to the back, anticipation is building. Frilly or commando? Push-up or Au Naturale. From the scent of something French to the extra slutty helping of makeup, it’s all naughty in the Whimsy book. And that’s the only book I’ve ever read.

  Everyone gets to say they were born this way, but me? I was made. I didn’t get this way alone. I had plenty of help. Whole teams employed to make her look younger? And above all else, can you tone her down?

  Whimsy was afraid of the natural order of things. I’m afraid the natural order of things got a bit screwy in my head. So, when I hear, she’s a nympho, an addict, a whore, I just smile and keep the news to myself.

  No matter how good they think their ‘D’ is, it’s not what I’m after. Every guy I’ve ever been with never got that. This is what gets me wet. The preparation, the work that’s been put in. As with all great highs, the penis only lasts so long and it’s not long before I’m back out. Fucking around again.

  Hoping for a look filled with just the right amount of flirt. The swagger. Phrases laced with just enough innuendo. Fuckticipation is what does my body good.

  It’s hard to sit still. I feel like a kid going to her first unsupervised sleepover. Except, I’ve got the entire weekend at The Staple.

  Out the window, is the heart of Los Angeles. Majestic brick buildings with masterpieces spray-painted on their sides by unknown taggers. Gifted in their anonymity, I wish I was like that, but I crave the spotlight.

  Up ahead, is the glitz and glamour of new construction. The Staple.

  I chose this hotel for a specific reason. The view. Specifically, it overlooks the poster. One of several placed strategically throughout Hollywood and Los Angeles. My equivalent of hanging posters that say, “Vote for Nova.”

  The nominations will be announced, and I’m here to perform at the nomination dinner this Sunday and win it.

  And there it is.

  You’re a long way from Whimsy.

  A Life size billboard of me, naked, backed up against my guitar, stares me in the face.

  The limo driver, whistles through his teeth. “That’s a good picture.”

  “That’s good publicity,” I correct him.

  At least that’s what the representative said. As one of six nominees, I could send in a promotional picture which would be featured throughout the city. ‘The flashier, the better. Who knows, you could end up on the side of the Staples Center?’

  Who knows? I do.

  I sent a fucking naked one, why not?

  As I stare at the free publicity, I have to wonder, how many accidents that’s caused.

  On my way to fuck up again, my ingrained guilt tr
ies to step in and take over.

  Same as any other addict, I have second thoughts. What’s the worst that could happen if I were to tell the driver, ‘turn around, go back. I’ve changed my mind.’ No skin off his skin, but plenty off mine.

  It’ll take hours with the vibrator and I still won’t be able to get off. The orgasm, if there’s any, about as satisfying as eating yesterday’s fries. Cold turkey leads to lots of cold showers.

  From her rocker chair in the pit of my stomach, condescending, Auntie Guilt, is always crocheting some kind of square, in the hue of fire and brimstone. She leans forward and stares over wire rims until she’s got my attention. “What you need is a meeting.”

  Maybe I do.

  Hi, my name’s NovaKain and I’m a sex addict. I could just see it.

  I’d look around me into judgmental eyes, especially from the women. Their ears closed to my lamented cries. “Don’t we all have a little slut stuck inside of us, stripping to be let out?

  Yeah, that would go over like a grenade in Tinsel town. I might as well say I’m a cannibal. No, at least the Zombie Lovers would support me.

  The limo bumps over the road and I sit up.

  Almost there. I could lean forward, tell the driver to drop me at the nearest church. It’s Los Angeles. There’s gotta be a basement meeting going on somewhere. Taunting myself, I lean forward. Before I open my mouth, I think of how best to phrase it.

  I’ve changed my mind. Just follow the trail of tears and missed opportunities. There might even be coffee and donuts.

  Here goes.

  I’m going to do this.

  The driver meets my eyes in the rearview. There’s compassion there. He looks like the kind of guy that knows where all the churches are.

  “Do you need some help?” He asks.

  Help? What does that even look like? I could say, Yes, now that you’ve mentioned it, I do. You might recognize me from the naked billboard we just passed, I’m NovaKain. I’m in a bit of a pickle, maybe you can help.