I’m in a quandary, a real tossup. I’m debating between finding yet another meeting spouting cold showers and abstinence vs. fucking my brains out. Thoughts?
There’s no correct way to phrase it.
I’m addicted to other humans.
“Put the divider up, will you?” I ask.
Besides, the double A’s will only tell me what I already know. Stay away from anything sexual. I don’t know how that’s going to work since I’m a pop star. And my number one hit is telling girls to give up the goods like their best friend, Molly.
Speaking of which…did I just leave my best friend at home?
No, please no, I think and my skin tingles like I’m in trouble. Jesus, no.
I dump the entire contents of my bag on the limo floor. A collection of brushes, makeup, the cell phone, keys, iPad, condoms, emotion lotion, tampons, even the vibrator, cord still attached! Just about everything I could possibly need if the Zombie Fuckfest were to start tonight but the most important thing? The only essential I’d need to fight off bloodthirsty zombies hoping to rip me in two, Fuck the straighteners and skimpy outfits. I’d have gladly walked in the front doors of this fine establishment pussy lips swinging as long as I was holding. Idiot!
The whole reason I drove into the city from the beach was to come packing, and I forgot the goods. A sundry of pills, Molly, pot, and party favors, so full, I’d almost bent the metal lid on the Nostalgic Josie and the Pussycats lunchbox trying to close it. At the bottom of the bag I find a collection of weed seeds and three crumbled looking tabs of X. This won’t even get me through the night! I think.
Kiki, don’t eat my lunch. I text.
Chapter 5
NovaKain
The lobby of The Staple is uber posh. Shiny marble paves the way to a bustling front desk. Everything’s so bright and clean. With a quick peek over my shoulder, I check to make sure I’m not leaving tarnished footprints. Maybe I should’ve picked a place less bright and inviting, I think as I stare up at a very expensive chandelier.
“May I help you?” Someone says. That’s the second one tonight, must be a sign.
Yes, I believe you can.” I fan myself with the black card and implore the good clerk to, “Give me a room. Make it up high. Shit might get loud.”
With a quick prayer to the credit card Gods, I hand him the card. Please make Rebel Records put up with one last shenanigan. Supposed to be unlimited, but I’m a limited engagement.
I’d went shopping yesterday and got the dreaded text …$2,000 for a dress? We’re going to have to have a sit-down.
“For one?” He asks. Wearing a tag that says Dan, the kid with the peach fuzz is infected by my enthusiasm.
So maybe, I lean forward and say. “It doesn’t have to be.”
He sputters. Is he okay?
Oh, that’s just his face. With his eyes wide open like that, he looks like he’s moonlighting for the Mormons on bikes. When bible school lets out that is. I feel a little creepy invading his personal space like this. I don’t need Chris Hansen featuring NovaKain on To Catch a Celebrity or some bullshit like that and now I’m the one backing my shit up.
Before he has a total meltdown, I hold up a hand and say. “It was a joke. Just the room please.”
He mimes a heart attack, like hooking up with me would be the absolute end. “Omigod! Thought I was being punked there for a second. Whew! Right away Miss Kain.”
At least he knows who I am. “I see, my reputation precedes me.”
“Huh? No, your names on your shirt. Along with your face.” He nods toward my boobs as he types.
Really dude. You can’t let a girl dream?
Dropping my voice, I lean close and gesture for him to do the same. With wide eyes, I whisper. “They make me wear it, so I don’t forget who I am. The back has an address to return me to if I’m lost.”
“Really?” He asks trying to peer over my shoulder.
NO. I roll my eyes.
“How’s that room coming?” I ask, pushing my oversized glasses up.
“I’ll just need your ID and we’re all set,” he says.
This might be a problem.
He looks from the ID to me. It’s a fake, a bad one at that, but one I never leave home without. All part of the anticipation. Book a driver, not one that I know. Check in under fake names with false pretenses and get ready for room service and tomfoolery.
“Is there a problem?” I ask and slide a folded Benjamin across the counter.
He makes it disappear like he does street magic on the side and says. “Definitely not, Miss. Beaverhausen.”
Not so young after all, his fingers fly over the keyboard with a fucking purpose. His demeanor is so bubbly and cheery. That is, until my card gets declined. Apologetically, he says, “It says I’m supposed to take it. Sorry Miss Kain.”
I batt at the sympathy he’s pouring my way with the Platinum. “Those fuckers! Here try this one. Might be a little on the iDisc one. If that doesn’t work, I might have to use my own card.”
The thought scares me. Sponsoring myself? My habits are known to run toward the expensive side. I might have to clean up quick and there’s the blessed receipt. “Turns out Platinum is my best color,” I say.
After scrawling my name in a grand flourish, I toss my wallet on his desk. “When that runs out, just move onto the next.”
When I step onto the elevator, I fling my hair back, dramatic-like, and point to the courtyard where a video plays on the Jumbotron. All that’s visible from here is a dark head.
“That’s me. Nominated for Artist the year,” I say to a crowded elevator of people that don’t give a shit.
With the doors closing. I Michael Jackson the shit out of that thought. Female artist of the year. With a squeal, I run my hand down the buttons, lighting up every floor.
“I want a good look,” I explain to the crowded elevator, before turning my back on all the sourpusses.
Forehead against the glass of the Willy Wonka elevator I just take myself in. My arms involuntarily want to run the dance moves to the faint music. The screen is ginormous, and can I say my skin still looks fabulous? It’s the Cindy Crawford, I swear.
Up there, high above it all, a talented girl dances, one that took on the evil empire, and won.
I pull a fingernail snort, from the crumpled baggie and finish the rest of the white powder. As the glass shell vaults past the side of the Staples jumbotron, I lick the inside of the baggy. There I am. Bigger than life and I…
There’s a snort behind me. “Try Comeback Artist of the Year.”
Then the elevator moves, and I see it. So much bigger than my name. Comeback Artist of the Year.
Turning my back on myself, I dial Kiki’s number. In keeping with her neglectful nature, it goes right to her voicemail. “Comeback? When the hell was I gone?”
Chapter 6
NovaKain
It feels like I just went nine rounds as I trudge toward the double doors of the Penthouse.
There’s no one that will look out for me. Not Whimsy, who shamed me into perpetual immaturity. I’ve got your sex appeal right here.
Not Rusty, who satisfied my sexual urges, but ran a little short in the love, honor, and obey department.
Not even Kiki, who can’t even get a damn promotional video right.
No one runs this shit but me.
Once I’m inside, my phone rings. It’s not Kiki, but she ratted me out just the same.
In the dark, the name on the screen hurts. “Hi Dad.”
“Your mom’s worried,” he says. No hi, kiss my ass, just right to the point.
“Are you?” I ask. Just give me something. A little crumb to show you care.
Instead, a lecture is in order.
“Of course. I hate to see her this way. You’re going to give her a stroke,” he says.
“Bye Dad,” I whisper and throw my phone across the room.
My hand moves on its own. Reaching into the go bag, I pull out one of the pink X-tabs, dust the lint
off and pop it in my mouth.
Should’ve never answered the phone.
Strumming my guitar proves fruitless, I’m not here to write, I’m here to ride.
I ditch it for the phone. Scrolling the apps, I click on my favorite, Yelp, and type in Male Escorts.
Why not, right?
They’ve got just about everything else, why not shweaty balls?
I smile at my own joke as a list of sexy men populates on the screen and I’m in heaven. Scrolling through a treasure trove of men, complete with a map showing their exact location, downtown is filled with them. With Yelp at my fingertips, who needs Kiki.
Ignoring the more reputable five stars completely, I scroll down into murkier depths. Not just the one stars, I’m looking for those that thrive in the shade of the one star. The seediest, that have never seen the light of day. It would be so much easier to spot if they’d just hashtag, our guys come with happy endings.
That would get my five stars. Clearly, I’m on the right track when the spa pictures of men in tailored suits give way to guys in oil and not much else.
Buried deep in the banana hammocks, I find just what I’m looking for.
Vinnie’s BeefKakes. Servicing LA’s Angels since 1984.
Bingo.
So, I say, hey, you’ve got a buzz to maintain, and dial the number.
A Cubano with a baby voice answers and turns me right the hell off. “You ready to get your world rocked, Mommy.”
“Ugh, you just killed my lady boner. Hey, are there really women into that Mommy shit?” I ask, watching the cherry on the end of my cigarette jitter in time to my tapping foot. I’ve gotta get something to cool out, pronto.
The Cubano accent gone, he says. “More than you think. What’ll it be?”
“One sec.”
I scroll through the pictures on the menu. “I’m having a hard time. There’s so many choices. How about…the All-American Beef…”
“Good choice,” he says.
Which gives me time to build up my nerve to say, instead of fries on the side, can I get some blow?
My mouth opens, my lips move, but what comes out is. “Ohhh. He’s cute. Add a side of that steamy Mongolian Beef, would ya?”
There’s fumbling with the phone on his end. “Excuse me? I’m having trouble hearing you. Did you say, Mongolian Beef?”
“Sorry! That sounded racist. I want the one that looks like Brandon Lee.”
“Oh. Kwan. He’s a fan favorite. All the ladies love him. Now, I have you located at The Staple, is that correct?”
“Yes.” I say, wondering what else he knows about me.
“What’s your room number?”
This is happening. I’m ordering up dick like UberEATS from Yelp. Before I can think better of it, I whisper. “1408.”
“Wait a minute. Isn’t that the penthouse? If this is some kind of a joke…” He asks.
Now, he’s suspicious?
Worried that my order might just end up as an audio reel on TMZ, yet not wanting him to think I’m out of my weight class is a hard line to tow. Resigned, I say. “It’s not. My name’s NovaKain, you can check with the front desk.”
“The singer? Wow. You are unapologetic, aren’t you? I’ll have them to you within the hour. I don’t know if you had a chance to peruse the entire menu. We offer a variety of services. Will there be anything else?” He purrs.
Technically, I think that’s entrapment, but he’s asking, so why not?
My voice sounds like a winky wink when I add. “Maybe a little seasoning? Something to spice up my meat?”
“How do you like your steak?” He asks.
How do I like my steak? Still stuck on the seasoning, it takes me a sec to decipher this new bit of code. Normally, I take my steak medium rare, but if I say that, it might lead him to believe this is my first rodeo. If he’s wearing a wire, he’s got a long tape reel because it takes me forever to spit out the incriminating words.
Fine, if he wants me to say it, I will. “Well fucking done. Cooked like a fucking goose and if that isn’t clear enough, I’ve got cash, and I’m looking to spend it on a little cock and candy.”
To which, he promptly hangs up.
Perhaps, I misread the cues.
For the next forty-minutes, I sit on the edge of the bed, and smoke the last of my weed. When it’s gone, I gnaw on a wicked hangnail.
I pay mushrooms to live in the shade for me, so why am I taking this risk?
Because I’d fucked up and ran out on my carefully packed lunch box to avoid the fight with Kiki that was sure to come after I mentioned that I might stop by the house in the hills and say hi to Rusty.
“You’re taking him back?” She’d asked astonished.
But it was like I never left. My pride wouldn’t let me. You know that fucker refused to apologize?
In a weak or, let’s be real, more like a drunken stupor, I’d caved. Staring deeply into his hooded eyes I’d asked. ‘What if I told you I wanted you back, all you had to do was apologize…. could you do it? Would you want to? Think long and hard buddy. Being Mr. NovaKain comes with a price.”
This said after I found him buried to the hilt in some strange. My heart squeezes. And we’re back at the beginning. It always comes back to this.
Thankfully, a knock on the door interrupts my trip down Shame Lane.
This could go either way.
It’s either beefcakes bearing gifts or the cops. Whoever’s there, it’ll be a most welcome distraction.
Why I look through the peephole before opening-I don’t know-I invited this danger to my doorstep, but I do. And just as I ordered, all American Burger and a side of saucy Mongolian beef.
The fan favorites got a little ‘tude. Arms crossed, like he worships at the Church of Kanye. When he comes in, he sucks on his teeth and drops a little side eye my way. The doo-rag’s a nice touch. “NovaKain, didn’t know you were in town,” he says, like he knows me.
No problem, I get that a lot. People hear my ballads of heartbreak and think they’ve got me pegged. Only, this square doesn’t fit into any of their predrilled holes.
“I’m having a Molly party and you’re invited. Open,” I say and tap the side of his cheek. He really looks like The Crow, light and dark. His five o’clock shadow pricks the tips of my fingers, but in a good way. Soon, I’m stroking his cheek, hugging him to me. “Seriously it’s good shit. I’m trippin’ balls right now.”
He leans forward and when his lips touch my palm in the barest kiss, chills run down my spine. He swallows. “Thanks for sharing,” he says.
So, no one feels left out, I put the last known pill of X, in existence, as far as I’m concerned. After this, no more. I think and place the dusty little pill on my tongue. “Open,” I say and take the All American’s mouth in a deep French kiss.
When, I come up for air, I look up into his hooded lids. “You really look just like…”
“You’ve probably seen my commercial,” he smiles and points to his white teeth.
“No, that’s not it,” I shake my head.
It’ll come to me. I picture that actor who plays Harley Quinn’s boyfriend. God what is his name? This is going to drive me crazy.
“Do you know the actor that sings that song Bury me, Bury me?” I ask.
He looks down his nose at me. “An actor who sings? Don’t you mean the actor who acts?”
I sneer right back. “Are we going to have a problem here Happy Meal?” I ask.
“And if we were? Would you prefer your spanking to be open-handed or with the belt?”” He smacks his hand hard and it gets through my drug dazed mind. Somewhere down below, the ovaries get ready to stoke the fire.
Mongolian Beef slides between us, but he’s facing me. Kissing my neck, he murmurs. “Jerod Leto. But who cares about him when you’ve got us.”
How about a little sweet before the sour?” He asks and holds up a hand. A sandwich baggie unrolls like a red carpet. The bottom is full of what looks like dust bunnies from an
Angel’s muck-bin.
I might as well be drooling as I stare down and the perfectly straight lines.
“Usually when you order online, you expect a little deviation. But BeefKakes hit it out of the park. That review is happening. Five-star mother fuckas! To all the eaters of sloppy seconds. Now let’s get fabulous.” I say and get the party started.
The deadbolt clicks and the cloud I’m hovering on is blown into the bedroom where I fall onto the rented bed. Nothing feels familiar, and that’s what I like. Anonymous sheets that feel like sandpaper, but in a good way. Hulking shadows in the dark which could either be a dresser, or a lurker. A chill travels down my spine as whisper light kisses graze my skin. I look up and imagine Jerod and Brandon in the bed with me. My hands don’t know where to go, or what to touch as I explore anonymous men with unknown intentions. Dragging a hand down each man’s chest, I run into clunky belts.
“Leather’s never stopped me before,” I say but my fingers aren’t listening.
They’re stumbling and tripping over two really big belt buckles. “Man, do you guys ride in the rodeo? Help me out.” I say and tug on their clothes.
Big or small? Hairy or bare? Bent to the left or the right. Big balls or no balls, what is it? The height of anticipation has got me clutching the side of the bed.
As Brandon works at untangling a mound of gold chains, I cheer for Jerod. He doesn’t disappoint when he steps up to the plate swinging a Louisville Slugger.
His eyes are filled with stars as he stares down into mine. Almost as if we’re in a romance, but wrong theater. This is a fuck film. As he kisses me, I close my eyes and his dark soulful ones blink in my mind.
Wait…was he wearing eyeliner? Glitter? Must be a switch hitter. Fuck it. Don’t need to know.
“Pinch a little harder, will ya? And don’t stop until I tell you.” Why not, I’m paying right? I hum the open bars of Bury Me.
The mattress indents. I open an eye and see my extra helping of steamy Mongolian Beef clocking in for work.
He nods once. “Sup.” And then he’s on the job. And this bitch is a backbreaker.
Fingers and tongues blend to form a velvet rope that drags, with delicious slowness, over every soft wet part of me. Our intertwined moans and grunts the soundtrack that each of my orgasms crescendos too.
Rock Bottom (The Handler Series Book 1) Page 4