Life Support (The Breathe Series Book 2) (53 page)

Peeping through one halfway-opened eye, I saw a woman.
Okay. Well, at least I got that right despite being completely wasted.
She looked to be about twenty-four.
And thank God. She’s legal.
Her platinum blonde hair stuck up in all directions, and black rings of mascara were smudged underneath her eyes. This girl was an absolute mess. It was
obvious
I’d been there
and
had a good time marking my territory.

She wasn’t bad looking, but she was absolutely no different than the rest of the other privileged rich girls whose daddies bought their horny daughters’ way into the VIP areas. When she smiled, nothing on her face moved. When she abruptly sat up and slid her way down to my dick, her unnaturally round tits didn’t budge either. It was evident she’d already started with the plastic surgery addiction. This was the kind of girl I was used to: fake, horny, and willing to do anything for a brush with fame.

A slight giggle bounced from her lips as she tugged the covers off my naked body, and then her warm, slimy tongue, coated with morning breath germs, traced up my shaft. The sensation sent a small tingle shooting up from my groin. I looked down to find her staring up at me, her eyes locked intimately on mine as she sucked half of me back into her throat.

Letting out a short sigh, I leaned back and shut my eyes, no hint of a smile on my face. The way she was wrapping her tongue around me felt damn good, and even though I really had no interest in her being there, I wasn’t going to deprive her of the joy she’d get from watching me get off
one
more time. I tried not to be selfish with that privilege.

After just a few minutes of her head bobbing up and down, her hand twisting at just the right moments, and her choking on my length a few times, I felt my body relax. My legs stiffened up, and then my entire body heated from the overwhelming rush of endorphins coursing through me. It’s amazing how quickly orgasms come when you’re not strung out on coke, or a bottle of oxycodone, or speed. Quicker, but weak compared to the euphoria that drugs granted me.

When that initial warm and fuzzy feeling wore off, I was ready to get her the hell out of my hotel room. Sitting up, I said, “Thanks for the great blow job. Pretty sure the door’s still unlocked,” and I flung my naked ass back down across the bed.

I watched her blink a couple of times, shocked at how rude I was being. I mean, she
had
just given me the gift of oral pleasure, and who knows what I told her the night before. I may have promised her she could go on tour with us. She narrowed her eyes.
Here comes the ‘OMG, I can’t believe what a bastard he is’ huff that chicks are so good at in 3, 2, 1...

A loud breath escaped her, and the springs of the mattress bounced as she hopped up. She mumbled to herself while gathering her things. I just laid there, staring up at the ceiling.

I tapped my finger in beat with her heels as they clicked across the tiled floors, and then they stopped.

Raising my head from the pillow, I glanced up at her, arching one brow in disinterest. The girl, whose name I’d never bothered to ask for, glared at me for a minute before a smile inched across her face.

“I can’t believe this!” She fell silent and shook her head, then covered her mouth with her hand. “I’m,” she paused. “Getting kicked out of
Jag Steele’s
hotel room. OMG! This. Is.
Amazing!”
she squealed, and pulled her phone to her face, her fingers typing furiously and the grin growing wider by the second. I guess she had to check in on Foursquare and let everyone know she’d just become the one-thousand, five hundred and sixty-seventh woman to have her tonsils rammed by me – or some number close to that, because I sure as hell didn’t try to keep count anymore.

Her eyes darted up at me, and I could tell she was considering something. I caught her pointer finger creeping down the side of her phone, and I cleared my throat. “If you take a photo of me like this and post it, my lawyers will be in touch with you.” I shot the biggest, most asshole smile I could shape over at her. “Got that, princess?”

Her excited expression relaxed and her jaw dangled open. She managed to huff out a dejected, “Uh, yeah,” as she lowered her phone and dropped it in her purse. And there she stood, frozen, by the door.

Still nude, I rose and brushed past her, opening the door and circling my finger in the air before pointing directly out into the hallway. “Enjoy the rest of your day,” I said.

Ms. No-Name skirted through, taking one last glance at me over her shoulder before I shut the door.

Rubbing my hands over my face, I made my way to the bathroom. I flipped the light switch and gave my eyes a minute to adjust to the artificial light. Sometimes I felt guilty after I kicked a girl out like that. I didn’t used to be such a jackass. And during my fleeting
moments
of sobriety, I could recall that I used to actually be really nice, sometimes even shy. Funny how well-rehearsed you can become at being who everyone
thinks
you should be. There was no doubt that I was a different guy.

At this point, life just annoyed the shit out of me.

A few hours later I was leaning against a doorway, watching the interns scamper around with lattes and double shot espressos. My eyes traced over the black cords running from the cameras, and then up at the canned lights hanging from the ceiling. The bustling New York City crowd was visible through the large window at the far end of the room, constant movement of people going through their mundane daily routines. Every so often someone would stop, cup their hands around their face, and peer into the studio.

Two more hours until I had to be in front of those cameras, and my nerves were already tightly bundled up, my stomach uneasy; all I could think about was running to the bathroom and snorting a few lines real quick. The only problem with that was I didn’t have any coke – oh, and I was supposed to be clean.

I hated being interviewed, especially when it would require me to rehash all the ridiculous shit that had happened over the past few years. Really, the biggest problem I had at that moment was my sobriety. I’d never done an interview sober, and I doubted that I could make it through this one.

“Excuse me, Jag.” One of the hipster interns attempted to get my attention.

Turning, and not saying a word, I faced him.

The intern didn’t glance up from his pad as he continued. “They need you to come back to the dressing room, do some makeup before they start.”

I pushed myself off of the door frame, then followed him down the slender white hallway.

He glanced back at me, a slight grin shaping his lips. “Man. I know I’m supposed to act all chill and stuff, but I can’t help it. Pandemic Sorrow is my favorite band. You’re a legend.”

Shoving my shades up through my hair, I forced my lips to curve up. I’d been told in rehab that I needed to act more appreciative, but when you’re as numb and arrogant as I am, sometimes it’s hard to act thankful about anything.

I forced out what I’d been told was an appropriate response. “Thanks, man. Really appreciate that.”

The guy stopped, dropping his clipboard down by his side and staring at me through his thick, black-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses. He shook his head and looked me dead in the eyes. “You guys aren’t really done, are you? Those are just rumors?”

“Nah. We can’t go nowhere. Music’s all we know.”

Pleased with that response, he turned and continued to the dressing room.

About seven months ago I’d almost made my heart explode, or almost overdosed, if you want to get technical with it, but I think the exploding heart thing sounds much better, less accusing. I had been
forced
into rehab, kicking and screaming, because I didn’t have a fucking problem. I just got a little too excited, a little too carried away, and snorted one too many lines. That’s not a problem, that’s an accident. Right after I finished my treatment and was told I was “cured” from my “habit,” I threatened and swore that I was going to leave Hollywood behind in an effort to stay clean. Of course, when that happened, people thought the band was done for. I hadn’t threatened that because I wanted to stay clean – honestly, it all just sounded like a hassle – but more so that I wanted to get the fuck away and have some privacy. At times, the idea of fading into the background, of having a life where each damn breath I drew wouldn’t be scrutinized and slapped across the front page of every tabloid in existence – well, sometimes that just seemed abso-fucking-lutely amazing.

We stopped outside the dressing room, and I grabbed the intern’s shoulder before he walked away. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Jay.”

One side of my mouth flipped up in a halfhearted grin, and I said, “Why do you work here, Jay?”

A ridge formed on his brow as he stared at me, not exactly sure why the hell I was asking him that question.

“What do you want to get from this place? From working at MTV? Fame? Is that what you’re running after?” I pointed back to the studio. “You want to eventually end up in front of that camera?”

Nodding, he said, “Well, yeah. I mean, who doesn’t want to be famous?”

I shook my head in disgust and turned to enter the dressing room as I mumbled, “Yeah. Well, some people that are famous just wish they weren’t.”

Jag is available at eBook retailers.

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