KNOCKOUT (42 page)

The two hot young girls wrapped around him cooed a chorus of flirtatious giggles. They must have been just barely eighteen, clad in tight, low-cut shirts that made their silky, angelic breasts practically burst out of the seams.

Despite my lack of interest, I wasn’t about to rain on his parade. I lightly raised my own bottle of music festival beer to him, shaking my head.

“You go on ahead, man. Not feelin’ it tonight.”

No matter where we went, fans were throwing themselves at us – and my band-mates were always eager to take the free, willing pussy back to the bus for a fresh bang.

In fact, my bassist and drummer were already back there now, getting their freak on with a few nameless groupies now.

“Serious?” Waylon asked drunkenly.

His limber playing hand slid under a skirt and along a tanned, tender ass, drawing a blush from the groupie’s cheeks. The sight made my cock almost twitch.

Almost.

“You sure you don’t want to try a piece of this Alabama ‘tang?” He pressed on. “Plenty to go around. I’m not greedy.”

The groupie twosome puffed their chests and wiggled provocatively for me, giving me the deepest pair of sultry, lustful looks that they could muster.

They looked cute.

Cute, and too young to be acting like this.

“Think I’m just gonna relax and ride the vibe,” I reaffirmed. “Go get your dick wet.”

“If you say so!”

“And ladies,” I continued, turning towards the girls, who settled down and looked at me almost fearfully. “Don’t keep him up all night. This guy needs to be shredding licks same time tomorrow.”

They nodded respectfully, but Waylon jumped up to his feet, his dreads scattering around his face briefly.

“Ain’t gonna happen. This train rides ‘til sunrise! Ain’t that right, ladies?”

They chuckled with big, goofy hero-worshipping grins on their faces. He scooped them up against his sides, and soon they stumbled off towards the back of the after-party, heading for our bus.

Joke’s on them,
I thought to myself.
Waylon’s a two-pump chump on a GOOD day.

Truth of the matter was that I’d been in a funk. For the last few weeks, I had turned down sex left, right, and center from even the most flexible little minxes.

A constant stream of the hottest goddamn chicks around went fucking wild for us on the regular.

And why shouldn’t they?

We weren’t just anybody.

We were
Trent Masters and the Whiplash,
the hottest fucking rock band in America.

On national radiowaves dominated by DJs making music off of laptops, mainstream child stars glammed up and given backing bands, and egotistical personalities lacking substance and spitting shit…we brought something better.

Something
harder.

Something
real
.

Something apparently sorely missed.

Our latest album,
Twelve Machines,
was flying off the shelves across the country. The last two singles went platinum. Hell, talks of a Grammy nomination were already in the pipeline.

I was on top of the fucking world.

Or I should have felt like I was.

But all I felt was empty inside, and even the quick fix of endless sex didn’t quell the tension.

It was hard to think I was taking advantage of these girls when they grinded up against me at after-parties like this, always seeming so desperate to give my cock the old spit-shine.

It just didn’t feel right.

But… I couldn’t tell what I wanted instead.

What I
needed
.

I drank another swig from my bottle of beer, watching the other bands delight in the attention. We were in town for this badass music festival called the
RipFest
, and we’d shared the stage with some serious rock legends and decent upcoming talent.

They were having fun. Even the older, crustier guys looked like they were having a blast, likely filled with enough drugs to bring down a Bull Rhino in its prime.

It’s not like I wasn’t grateful… I was just… Lost.

The constant attention was overwhelming – too much of a great fucking thing. I had to be careful about the shit I said, because rock stars were even
closer
to scandal in this day and age.

Everything constantly recorded, rumors spread with the speed of a tweet and the snap of a camera on some girl’s iPhone.

It was all about being careful and avoiding the wrong kind of spotlight. Blogs are eager for clicks, and the whole world is ready to tear you down to build an audience.

I’d paid my dues.

No more practicing in oily garages and filthy bars. No more struggling in hard labor and backbreaking jobs to make ends meet. I wasn’t going to let some little misstep tear me down.

Despite the bullshit, the throne on this rising fucking star felt grand.

But as the light grew brighter…the shadows only grew filthier. Despite all the fame, all the success, all the money and women and the fancy toys. I knew the truth.

The world is a filthy place.

And I am the reigning king of the filth.

Forty-Two

Angel

S
ummoning
every drop of charisma that I could find, I smiled and plunked down the glasses at the four-top bar table for the graying, slovenly bikers. I rattled off the orders as I sloshed the drinks in front of them in turn, each of them smiling grotesquely.

“Four drafts: Bud, Bud, Miller Lite, and Abita. And four shots of Fireball, because
why not
,” I added mirthlessly.

“Thanks, darlin’,” the closest biker chuckled, lifting his shot and suddenly grabbing a nice handful of my ass.

I flinched and drew back from him, preserving my pride – and my job – by not responding poorly to the harassment.

“Can I get you guys anything else?”

It was less a question, and more a growl.

“One other thing.”

He dropped his menu on the ground, and looked at me expectantly.

“Step onto that.”

I was used to this by now, and I suppressed a heavy sigh and a filthy look. Instead, I stepped meaningfully onto the discarded menu.

“We’ll take one of
you
,” he grinned.

“You can’t have one of me.”

“But darlin’, you’re on the menu!”

They broke into riotous laughter, as if this was the cleverest fucking joke ever.

It
was
pretty funny the first time someone did it to me. Months ago… People are less original than they think. I heard this one twice a week.

“Looks like we’re fresh out,” I responded, scooping the menu off the floor and strolling away.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw their laughter die down, and they were looking at me with annoyance for not playing along.

To hell with ‘em.

To hell with everything about this stupid goddamn job.

I hated working this ancient, decrepit dive bar. The money was just good enough to keep myself afloat, and bartending was fun enough, but not somewhere like this.

If it wasn’t bikers, it was rednecks.

If it wasn’t rednecks, it was thugs.

If it wasn’t thugs…

A shiver went up my spine. I didn’t like to think about that.

Old Greg owned this place, and he was a friendly enough guy. Hell, he’d been a godsend. A lifelong resident of this backwater little town, he was old enough to be my grandfather. His best patron was our sheriff – someone who turned a blind eye when I was brought onboard to tend bar at sixteen.

At least
that
was no longer a problem. I’d turned eighteen pouring drinks.

When it was slow and I was cleaning glasses or wiping surfaces, I dreamed of exactly what you’d think a bright, young girl who dream about in a place like this:

Getting the
hell
out of Riverton.

That was the name of this place. The town, not the bar. Well, the bar too, technically.

Riverton Bar
, in
Riverton… On Riverton Avenue.

Remember when I said people aren’t original?

That applies to the friendly ones, too.

Dropping the drink tray off at the stack, I passed back around the counter and checked on my other patrons – several working-class stragglers, downing cheap beer specials, an older fellow nursing a whiskey neat, and a few older crones sipping heavy martinis.

Satisfied, I began taking stock of my liquors. I was gonna have to pop open a bottle of Crown soon, and we were still out of half our rum…

While I checked things off on my clipboard, I noticed someone approaching the bar. I didn’t think much of it, and I continued my work for a moment. I was busy, and the shadow could see that.

Whoever it was, he could wait a minute.

Ticking a couple of more checks, I finally turned around to see the same biker from before – the jester of the group.

Well, more like the leader, from the way the other bikers regarded him. He was leering at me for some reason, and I felt a pit deep in my stomach.

“You forgot something,” he grumbled.

“Sorry,” I answered, letting my tone demonstrate how unapologetic I really was. “My memory’s a bit fuzzy. What was it?”

He sat an empty shot glass on the counter.

I glanced at it, then back up to him.

“I wasn’t kidding. I really don’t remember. What was it again?”

His eye twitched, but he backed off a little.

“Crown.”

“Oh, right,” I nodded, reaching for the liquor bottle. “Fireball shots for everyone, and another Crown for you.” If he’d have been any less of a total creep, I would have snuck him a second one, just to make up for it.

It wasn’t becoming for a bartender to have to scribble down the drink orders, but I’d been managing pretty well all night. On crazy nights, I took the excuse to do it, which made things run way less stressful for me.

Of course, it was on a simple shot for the most intimidating and questionable guy all night that I’d lose my train of focus.

“Here you go,” I placed it back down on the counter for him.

“Thanks,” he grumbled, walking away.

But he was still watching me out of the corner of his eye. I didn’t like it.

I sighed inwardly, turning to my other patrons. They’d been trying to ignore the raucous bikers, but even
they
could sense the unsettling tension in the room that had developed around the group.

And there was the way they looked at me…

Maybe I’d get lucky and they’d lose interest before closing time. Risking a quick look, I caught the big biker staring, a crooked smile growing across his unshaven face.

I’d never been a very
lucky
girl…

Forty-Three

Trent

A
fter ditching
the shitty after-party, it was a small matter to figure out where to go. I still felt like drinking, but if I’d stepped into any old bar here in the city I’d be recognized and ambushed for autographs and selfies.

Fuck
that
shit.

I needed something a little more discreet.

That’s why I slipped out and hopped into one of the rentals that were made available for band use. It was nothing special, just a shiny little red jeep – not really my style, but I didn’t really care. After all, who the fuck was I trying to impress out here?

Hitting the road, I found my way to the Interstate and just started driving.

Once I got away from the light pollution, the night sky was beautiful. Crystal clear stars without a cloud in view. It was hard to find the time to appreciate the stars when you were on seemingly permanent tour.

Only two more weeks of this shit.

Another little voice reminded me:
for now
.

That’s life. Hard work plus luck begets success. A spot of good luck definitely sparks the fire, but the hard work? That’s what keeps the blaze going strong. I knew damn well I’d be back on tour soon enough.

After about thirty minutes cruising down the highway in the rental jeep, I decided to take a chance on the next exit. Out here, the tall, monolithic restaurant and gas station sides were all weeded out, and I was lucky to spot a Chevron station from the interstate.

This particular exit looked like it led to the middle of nowhere. The sign said “Riverton”, but the endless, dark woods all around practically screamed “dilapidated little town.”

Never heard of the place.

Sounded small. Quaint.

Just to my tastes.

But after cruising down the main road into town, I realized that I might have chosen a place a little
too
small. There wasn’t a lot to this little backwoods town. Hell, I hesitate to even call it a
town.

True to its namesake, it was situated on a riverbank. The spot was primarily residential, with a ton of ramshackle houses and borderline huts. Not a whole lot of businesses. You had your hardware stores, combination gas station slash small grocer, and a few tiny, ancient restaurants. This was one of those little commuter towns where everybody drives forty-five minutes to work in the city.

If this place wasn’t the sticks,
nothing
was.

I’d just about given up on finding this place when I spotted a derelict old bar by the side.

Riverton Bar...

“Alright,” I muttered to myself, flicking on my blinker and slowing down. “So long as they don’t actually
piss
in the stills, this should be fine…”

Something about the place looked appealing despite its shoddy state. Maybe it was just that it was so different from anywhere I’d been since hitting it big. These days my life was full of big city bars and clubs, and the occasional lavish hotel room after-party.

But that was only really part of it.

It just looked like how I felt inside.

Filthy.

Broken-down.

Borderline functional.

Committed to the cause, I pulled up beside a battered collection of old trucks and crumpled, ancient sedans.

Hopping out of the jeep, I became aware of how clean and pristine the rental looked, especially beside these dirty, sputtering rust-buckets…

And, glancing down at myself, I realized that I was
definitely
going to stick out like a sore fucking thumb in these parts. I hadn’t even bothered to change from my stage clothes.

I pushed open the door and stepped inside, walking into redneck central dressed like a fucking rockstar.

Which, let’s be honest.

I totally fucking
was.

With a glance, I surmised the atmosphere. Not too many people here, maybe a dozen at most, but the ones that
were
painted a pretty vivid picture for me.

A group of gnarled old bikers.

Couple of sloppy rednecks.

Some older women holed up in the corner.

Yeah…definitely not my speed.

I hesitated at the door, but then my eyes fell on the bartender. She was in the middle of taking a drink order at one of the bar tops and was about as out of place as an angel in hell.

She wasn’t just pretty. She looked
fucking
beautiful... Her luscious hair barely graced her shoulders. Long, bare legs stretched for miles from her miniskirt down to her cute and almost criminally disheveled pair of red Converse sneakers. Her low-cut blouse hinted at moderately sized breasts – not too big, but not small.

Perfect.

My feet moved of their own volition, stepping closer towards the counter. The patrons were already looking at me with their stupid, judgmental eyes, but I didn’t give a shit.

They could get fucked.

Half of them looked like they could use it.

As I comfortably took my seat, the bartender glanced over her shoulder at me – flashing me a look at her sharp and beautiful eyes.

My cock twitched in my shredded jeans.

That’s when I knew.

I was fucking her tonight.