Copyright © 2019 by Samantha Towle
All rights reserved.
Visit my website at www.samanthatowle.co.uk
Cover Model: Colton B.
Photographer: Wander Aguiar
Cover Designer: Najla Qamber Designs
Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-13: 9781687661692
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Epilogue
Playlist
Acknowledgments
OTHER BOOKS BY SAMANTHA TOWLE
About the Author
“We’re Slater Raze. And you’ve been fucking awesome!”
I’m already walking offstage before Raze has finished speaking, handing off my guitar to one of the roadies.
I’m just not feeling it tonight. Actually, I’ve not been feeling it at all recently.
I’ll always love the music. But something’s missing. I have this hollow feeling inside of me. And no matter how much coke I take, weed I smoke, whiskey I drink, or pussy I fuck, nothing is filling it.
I’m twenty-four years old and starting to wonder if I’m already burned out.
Now, wouldn’t that be an LA fucking tragedy?
Not that I’m saying I didn’t give those people a good show because I did. I always show up and give my all.
Just lately, my all is more of an act than reality.
I swipe an unopened bottle of water off a passing table, downing it as I walk toward our dressing room.
I let myself in the room, savoring the peace that won’t last long.
I sit my ass down on the sofa and light up a cigarette when Raze comes striding in.
He pulls off his shirt, tossing it aside, and grabs a clean one that’s been left in here for him, pulling it on. Raze always sweats like a motherfucker onstage.
Fuck knows why ’cause all he does is sing.
He grabs one of the chairs from a dressing table and pulls it over. He turns it around and sits down on it. “Sup?” he says to me.
“Nothing.”
I toss my pack of smokes and lighter to him. He catches them and takes a cigarette out, putting it between his lips.
Before lighting it, he pulls his long hair back off his face and ties it up, using a band from around his wrist.
He takes a drag of his cigarette. His words come out with the smoke. “Good show?”
It sounds like a question. But all I answer with is, “Yep.”
“You left the stage pretty quick.”
I shrug.
“Something happen?”
“Nope. Just needed a smoke.”
He’s watching me. Thing about Raze is, he’s a smart motherfucker, and he knows me well.
He’s my best friend. Has been since I moved to LA.
I met him because his dad used to be a producer for The Mighty Storm—biggest band in the world and my official and unofficial adopted family.
Raze was always at the studio with his dad. I was there because Jake, Tom, Denny, and Smith were there, and where they went, I went.
My biological father was Jonny Creed.
Jonny used to be the guitarist in The Mighty Storm. He died in an automobile accident when I was about five years old.
Not that I ever knew him.
And he never knew me.
My mom kept me a secret from them all.
But when she was diagnosed with incurable cancer when I was thirteen, she reached out to Jake.
My mom used to be a TMS groupie. She’d slept with both Jake and Jonny around the time she got pregnant with me.
Back then, Jake’s and Jonny’s lifestyles were very similar to how I live mine now. Women, drugs, drinking, constant partying, and nonstop traveling.
Mom didn’t want to raise a baby around that.
It took me a long time to understand why she’d kept me away. Living the life I do now, I get it.
So, she moved away and kept me secret. Until she was dying.
There was a DNA test, but it was set on that I was Jonny’s kid.
I look exactly like him.
So, it was no surprise when the results came back that I was a Creed.
Jake moved me and Mom to LA. When Mom passed, I moved in with Jake and his wife, Tru, and their kids JJ, Billy, and Belle. My grandpa, Jonny’s dad, moved in too.
Grandpa died three years ago though. He had a stroke that he never recovered from.
The last of my blood gone.
Even though I had my grandpa back then, Jake and Tru adopted me. My mom had asked them to. She wanted me to have a legal guardian after she was gone.
I had a ready-made family. And I love them all. I do.
But, really, music was always my home.
I never felt more comfortable than I did when I was at the studio with them.
But Raze eventually stopped coming around the studio when his dad decided that he preferred drinking to working.
Now, the asshole just spends his days getting wasted and leeching off his only son.
But that’s a story for another time.
Raze and I continued being friends though. I didn’t have many friends around that time, so I wasn’t letting go of the one I had.
Raze and I were friends long before we formed our band, Slater Raze.
Speaking of our band …
“Where’s Cash and Levi?”
Cash is our drummer, and Levi plays bass. I’ve known them almost as long as I’ve known Raze.
I met them both at high school. Eventually, I introduced them to Raze. The four of us created Slater Raze when we were fifteen. We’ve been together ever since.
“Cash got distracted.”
I laugh. Cash gets easily distracted. Usually by women.
Who am I kidding? It’s always by women.
“Levi?”
“Taking a piss.”
I take a long pull on my cigarette. Letting the smoke out slowly, I watch it curl upward toward the ceiling.
“What’s eating at you?”
I bring my eyes down to Raze.
I shrug.
“You think you played shit?”
I laugh and take another pull on my smoke. “You know I didn’t.”
“Then, what the fuck’s wrong with you?”
I lean forward and put my cigarette out in the ashtray on the coffee table sitting between us. “Since when did you become my shrink?”
“Fuck off. I’m concerned.”
“I’m fine.”
“Is it the Jonny stuff again?”
I get compared to Jonny. A lot.
Hell, even my and Raze’s friendship has been compared to Jonny and
Jake’s.
Does it drain me? Drive me nuts?
Of course it does.
Hearing how I’ll never live up to the musical standard or success that Jonny had sucks ass.
Think Kurt Cobain. Jonny has been immortalized in the exact same way.
His face and talent frozen forever in time.
Unfortunately for me, unlike Kurt’s offspring, I’m a musician. I play the same instrument as Jonny did.
Therefore, every aspect of my life is measured against his.
My talent, my private life, everything.
Jonny died young. So, I guess if we’re going the same route, I have a few years left in me before my car takes a nosedive into a ravine.
I know; I’m fucking hilarious.
I shrug again. “I don’t know, man. I’m just tired.”
The door flies open, banging against the plasterboard wall.
“Motherfuckers!”
It’s Cash.
“What the fuck are you two pussies doing in here? Braiding each other’s hair?”
I flip him off, and he just laughs.
“Greenroom. Now. There’s pussy waiting to be signed.”
That raises my brow. “Signed?”
“Sorry.” Cash grins. “I meant, fucked.”
Both Raze and I laugh before getting to our feet and following him out into the hall.
The three of us walk into the greenroom, which is already filled, mostly with men I do know—roadies, producers, and the like. And women I don’t know.
Levi is already here. He hands me a beer as I approach.
Cash is off, already beelining for some Asian-looking chick who’s sitting on one of the sofas. I’m guessing she was his earlier distraction.
She’ll last for the night, and then he’ll move on to the next.
Like we all will.
Raze is talking to one of our sound guys.
“Good show,” Levi says to me. His words don’t sound like a question because, unlike Raze, Levi doesn’t probe. He’s just chill. The most laid-back motherfucker I’ve ever met.
“Yeah. Good show,” I say to him.
I take a swig of my beer and let my eyes drift over the room.
One table filled with food. Another littered with booze. There’ll be drugs here too, just not on show.
Music playing in the background. Women here, hoping to hook up with one of us.
Same shit. Different night.
Yawn.
Shit. If fifteen-year-old me could hear me now, he’d probably punch me in the nuts.
And I’d deserve it.
Maybe I was right earlier. Maybe I am burned out.
Maybe I just need a break. From everything.
I go to my pocket for my cigarettes and remember that I left them in the other room.
For fuck’s sake.
“Just gonna head back to the dressing room. Left my smokes in there,” I tell Cash.
Taking my beer with me, I walk back, taking my time. I’m in no rush.
Pushing open the dressing room door, I cross the room and grab the pack and my lighter off the table.
I take one out and light it up, inhaling the smoke. I pocket the pack and lighter.
When I turn around, bottle still in hand, I’m only half-surprised to see a girl in the doorway.
Well, when I say girl, I mean, woman. I’d say she’s about my age.
I don’t recognize her. But then again, she could have been coming to the after-parties for months, and I still wouldn’t recognize her.
I’d have to care to remember, and as of late, I care about very little.
“Hi.” She smiles and bites her lip, giving me a shy look. “You’re Storm, right?”
This chick is anything but shy. She wouldn’t be here, about to proposition me for sex if she was.
And no, that’s not me being a presumptuous asshole.
That’s from me being in varying scenarios of this exact same situation far too many times to remember.
A woman who doesn’t work for the label or the band, standing in my doorway after a show, is here for one reason only.
To fuck me.
But she’s going for the coy angle, and I’ll play along. It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do.
I don’t say anything. I just let my eyes drag down the length of her while I take another drag on my cigarette.
She’s pretty.
Tall, like I like my women. Long legs. Shoulder-length blonde hair. Short skirt. Low-cut top. Tan skin. Pouty lips, which aren’t natural. The tits aren’t real either.
I’ve seen enough to know the difference.
Hey, I’m not judging. A girl wants to make some changes to what the genetic gods gave her, then all the power to her.
If I could cosmetic surgery out whatever the fuck is going on with me at the moment, then I would.
She’s probably a nice girl.
But it also doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know what she’s here for.
I wouldn’t say she wants to fuck me specifically. Hell, maybe she does. But, usually, these girls just want to screw any guy from the band.
Whether it be for bragging rights or because she’s hoping more will come from it, I’ve no clue.
I’d like to think she’s not that stupid.
Me and the boys definitely aren’t known for being the settling-down type.
She twirls her hair around her finger and bites her lip again, looking at me from under false lashes. “I’m Nina.”
“I’m not in the mood to talk.”
Okay, that was a bit assholish, but it’s also the truth. The last thing I want to do right now is talk. And I definitely don’t care what her name is.
“Okay. So, no talking. Are you in the mood to fuck?”
And there it is.
Am I in the mood to fuck?
Good question.
It’s not like I have anything else going on right this second.
But the prospect of screwing this girl doesn’t exactly get my blood pumping either.
I guess I could go home and sleep. I do have an interview first thing tomorrow morning.
I almost laugh out loud.
Go home and sleep.
Some fucking rock star I am.
I bet Jonny wouldn’t have ever turned down the chance to fuck a hot chick.
And now, I’m comparing my libido with my dead father’s.
That’s some Freudian shit right there. My shrink would have a fucking field day with it.
I flick the building ash from my cigarette into the ashtray on the table.
“Can I have one?” She gestures to the smoke in my hand.
Pulling the packet from my pocket, I get one out and hold it out to her.
She crosses the room, letting the door close behind her. Her heels click loudly on the wooden floor.
She takes the cigarette from me, purposely running her nails over my hand.
I feel absolutely nothing.
Not even a flicker of interest.
But that’s nothing new. Not as of late anyway.
She puts the cigarette between her lips. I hold the lighter out. She steps closer, and I light it for her.
She doesn’t move away. She’s so close, I can smell her perfume.
And see right down her top.
And still, I feel nothing.
I watch the smoke slip out of her mouth with her next words. “I’ve heard things about you … good things. My friend Mel said you have a magical tongue.”
That does make me laugh.
So, I’ve banged her friend. Not surprising. I’ve screwed a lot of women.
She smiles, looking pleased.
“I have a magical tongue too,” she tells me.
“That so?” I wonder if I sound as bored as I feel.
“Yep.” She reaches out and trails her finger down my chest, my stomach, stopping at the button of my jeans. “I can show you oblivion, baby.”
I stifle a laugh this time.
But, honestly, oblivion does sound better than anything I’m feeling—or not feeling—right now.
Her hand moves down, and she cups my dick through my jeans and squeezes.
I don’t even flinch.
But my dick does finally perk up and show some interest.
Maybe I should just fuck her. It’s not like I have anything else to do.
Jesus. Is this what my life has come to?
Lifting my beer bottle to my lips, I drain it.
I put the bottle down on the table beside me. Take one last drag on my cigarette and drop the butt inside the empty bottle.
I stare at her a moment.
She licks her lips.
Guess I could fuck her. Beats sitting around, stuck in my own head all night, trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me.
Decision made, I take her cigarette from her hand and drop that in the bottle too.
“You got a condom?” I ask her.
She reaches a hand inside her bra and pulls one out. She taps me on the nose with it. “I was a good Girl Scout. I always came prepared.”
A feeling of boredom almost overwhelms me. She really needs to stop talking.
She reaches for my zipper, but I catch her wrist, stopping her. I stare down into her pretty face.
“Like I said before, I ain’t in the mood to talk. So, if we fuck, that’s all we do. Quietly. Then, we’re done. Or this ain’t happening.”
Her smile dims, but she quickly covers it up, forcing her smile to go wider than before.
But I don’t feel bad.
I’m nothing if not honest.
“No talking.” She makes the zip motion across her lips. “Got it.”
I let go of her wrist.
She nudges me backward until I sit my ass back down on the sofa I was sitting in not ten minutes ago.
She gets on her knees between my legs and smiles up at me. “You want me to be quiet, rock star? Then, you’d better keep my mouth full.”
She yanks down my zipper.
I shut my eyes, let my head fall back, and wait for that oblivion she promised to take hold.
Consciousness pushes at the fringes of sleep.
I love that moment when you’re just leaving a dream, slipping out of your mind’s fiction and cruising back into reality.
Although my reality isn’t feeling too great at the moment.
I’m pretty sure I was hit by a liquor truck.
That, or I just got absolutely shit-faced last night.
Finding Storm Page 1