Rock (Hard Rock Harlots #4) (5 page)

“You’re trouble, pussycat,” he whispers into the air above my lips.

I beam. “Always.”

“Just the way I like you.” He sucks the juice off his digits and smears them over my mouth. My tongue snaps out for a taste. “And just so you know, you ain’t getting rid of me so easy.”

“Okay,” I say. “I trust you.” I snatch his hand between my fingers and hug the knot to my shoulder.

“You have nothing to worry about with Eliza.”

I sigh and offer a pinched smile.

Eliza’s not the one who’s gonna steal his heart. The alien is.

I
wake up cold
. And wet. And blind.

Blood pounds against the inside of my cranium. I sit up too fast and smack a palm to my face. “Fucking fuck!” My nose feels like it’s the size of a beach ball. My jaw aches. My corneas burn. And I think there’s a …

I tilt my ass left and dig out a twig from between my cheeks. That’s gonna leave a mark.

“Are you homeless?” a set of tiny vocal cords asks. The sickly sweet scent of bubblegum floats toward me, lighting up the nausea receptors in my hungover stomach.

I startle and squint into the rising sun. Ah, the big, jolly yellow bastard must be the source of the whole blindness thing. Shielding my eyes, I pat around beside me. Surely I brought my wallet, phone, or maybe some pepper spray. A kid stares down at me, a wad of bloated flesh plumping his cheeks as he bends forward.

“What the hell is that, the mumps?” I flick his chubby face. Gently.

He grins, and a blob of pink oozes between his molars. He pulls out a long, gooey string and dangles it in front of me. “Gum. You want some?”

I wave him away. “That’s disgusting.”

“Did that policeman arrest you, homeless lady?” He points beside me. “Is he gonna escort you to your cardboard box on the streets?” A thirst for blood clouds the kid’s eager expression. The vile little leech.

I turn right. Shades smacks his lips a couple of times on the ground beside me. I thwack his arm. “
This
is what you have to look forward to, Daddy-o.”

He rubs his head and sits up gingerly. “What happened?”

“You’re gonna take this bad lady to jail, ain’t you, mister?”

I slowly catalogue my surroundings. About six kids have cleared the fence and are chasing each other. Well, isn’t this dandy? Guess the neighborhood ankle-biters use the school playground on the weekends too.

“Yeah. She’s going to jail, all right. Get outta here, kid,” Shades grumbles, wincing as he adjusts his ass and palms his nads.

“You gonna bust her for indecent exposure?” The little shit blows a bubble. “I seen her butt cheek!”

I huff and get to my feet real quick-like, smoothing my skirt down in the process. Thank God I resettled the thong into place after my adventures last night. “Didn’t you hear the cop? He said hit the road, you pervert.” I bare my teeth and advance on the brat like a pissed-off grizzly bear. “Rawr!”

The kid screams, turns tail, and runs. Serves the fucker right, looking up my skirt when I was passed out in the grass on a school playground. “And if you come here again, I’ll call your momma and tell her you been trespassing on school property.”

A real cop car rounds the corner. Holy fuck. The other kids scatter like roaches. I grab Shades’s hand. “Come on, we gotta go!”

“Goddamn it,” he groans as he limps behind me.

“Hurry up! What’s wrong with you?” I don’t dare look back. If the cop makes us, we’re in trouble.

His unsteady gait slows me down. “I think I broke my cock.”

“What the fuck?” Seriously, this could only happen to us. “Just move it. I’ll look at it when we get to the bus.”

The cop car threatens with a quick bleep of siren, and blue lights spin. I drag Shades through the playground and make for the trees lining the fence on the other side. With great effort, we manage to clear the wires and land in somebody’s backyard. Shades hunch-runs, clutching his crotch like he’s got a nasty case of the crabs.

Great. Fucking great.

Cussing Shades’s name, I snatch his phone from his butt pocket and use the GPS to figure out where the hell we are. A few blocks from the bus—assuming Jillian didn’t leave without us, which is an entirely reasonable possibility. She’s done it before.

We lope through the ass end of a quaint little neighborhood, attracting attention of some early rising gardeners along the way. “Nothing to see here,” I call to them. “Just taking a leisurely stroll, helping the police with an investigation.”

One woman clucks like a damn chicken. I flip her a bird as we break out of her yard and hightail it for the main drag.

Shades pants behind me. “Slow down, pussycat. I gotta catch my breath.”

I turn around. He’s bent over, hands braced on knees, chugging air. He pauses to rub his package again. “Goddamn, this fucking hurts.”

Now I’m worried. He never complains about pain. Ever. Maybe I really did break his cock. I loop my arm around his waist and help him forward. “Lean on me. As soon as we get to the bus, we’ll drive you to a doctor.”

Teeth clenched, he does as he’s told. Luckily, traffic has picked up. We’re less conspicuous among the pedestrians heading for brunch dates, coffee, and shopping. A couple blocks later, the bus appears. Thank Christ.

Supporting as much of his weight as I can, I help Shades up the steps, and he collapses into the couch cushions up front. Jillian storms down the aisle, electronic cigarette bouncing.

“Where the fuck have you two been?”

I point to Shades. “He broke his dick.”

She pauses. Shakes her head. “He … what?” Ha! Caught her off guard for once! “I don’t even want to know. You’re late, Letty. We were supposed to leave an hour ago. I tried calling you, but you left your phone—” Her gaze shifts to Shades. “What the hell are you doing?”

He’s unzipped his polyester police pants. He gingerly pulls out his flaccid wanker, and the three of us cringe in unison. The thing is almost completely blue, purple, and black.

Shiiiiiiit. “Oh my God, Shades!” I turn to Jillian. “We gotta get him to a doctor, like now.” I can’t get enough air. If his cock dies, it’s all over. I
need
that cock! “We
must
save Shades’s penis!”

“What about Shades’s penis?” Toombs heads our way, and then stops dead in his tracks. “Jesus Christ. What did you do to him, Letty?”

“Went down a slide open-mouthed and caught him wrong,” I say. Toombs screws up his face. “Hey, he’s not the only one who got hurt. I think he bruised my uvula.” I stroke my sore throat. “Oh, never mind. We need a hospital. Stat.”

Jillian huffs her irritation. I could swear a wisp of smoke slithers out of her nose even though she hasn’t puffed on her cigarette. “You’ve got at least one more show to play on this tour. You cannot fuck this up—broken dick or not. And we still have to decide where we’re going from here. You know, for your careers’ sake?” she sneers. “God, you idiots infuriate me.”

Is it me, or is Jillian a little pissier than usual?

Freddie, our driver, clambers up the steps.

“Take us to the nearest emergency room,” she barks at him. “One of the children snapped his twig and berries.”

Freddie flinches. When Jillian stares him down without further comment, he hops into the driver’s seat and hits the road.

Jillian hollers for Jinx, Rax, and Eve to come to the front.

“Put your broke-ass wiener away, Shades,” I say. No need to scare the rest of the band. Fuck knows, I’m scared shitless. What if he can’t get it up anymore? Of course, I love him, and I’ll stick with him no matter what, but sex is a huge, important part of our relationship. If we have to play hide the salami with a soggy, limp hot dog, I’ll … shit, I don’t know what I’ll do. Be a really pissed-off nymphomaniac confined to quarters, I guess. I glance to Rax and Jinx coming up the aisle, then cut over to Toombs.

Except on birthdays.

Well, that’s a small relief.

But, really, his pussy pounder can’t be rendered inert and hauled off for scrap. My twat sniffles.

“Sit your asses down.” Jillian smacks the couch. “We need to come to a decision right now about this band’s future, Shades’s dick notwithstanding.”

Rax’s brow hops.

I shake my head. “Don’t ask.”

“What’s it going to be? Finish this tour with Lords of Infamy taking point, or join Get Your Rock Off?” She looks at her feet when she mentions the latter. Like she doesn’t want her opinion to sway us. Which means she has a definite opinion.

“You know how I feel about it. Get Your Rock Off is the way to go.” Rax folds his arms over his chest, biceps flexing just enough to snag my libido’s attention.

Am I already looking for a replacement for Shades’s (possibly) dysfunctional bologna pony? Shit, I’m an awful human being.

“I’m with Rax,” Jinx says.

“Me three,” Toombs adds.

Jillian locks her gaze on Shades, then me. “Well?”

My poor man shifts again on the couch, grabs my hand, and silently asks the same question of me.
Well?

Deep breath in. Let it out slowly. “Fine. We’ll join the ‘Rock Off’ tour.” It’s the best move for the band, even though it might kill me and Shades. If his Jell-O pole doesn’t first.

He nods. “I’m in too.”

Relief blossoms across Jillian’s face, as if she had something big to lose if things had gone the other way. She’s been twitchy as hell the last couple of days. Seriously, what the fuck is up with her?

“All right. I’ll have them email the contract over right away. Killer Buzz Float will say its farewells tonight. You can begin writing a new chapter in your autobiographies in a couple weeks when you join up with Banging Betties.”

“May The Rock be with us.” Rax tips up his water bottle and guzzles. Jinx and Toombs clink imaginary glasses to his plastic. Shades’s face is pinched tighter than a constipated gorilla sweating bullets after a prune juice enema. And I’m guessing it’s not entirely from the pain.

“Long live The Rock,” I mumble and salute halfheartedly.

Why do I get the feeling like someone just signed my career’s death warrant?

T
urns out Shades
didn’t break his cock. The doctor said it was more like a bad sprain. Apparently, he
bent
his penis, but since there was no popping sound when the deed was done, and the tunica albuginea—whatever the hell that is—didn’t tear, there’s no need for surgery. The bruising was pretty bad, though. Doc advised Shades not to fuck or whack off for a month or until all the discoloration is gone, and to see a doctor for a recheck.

So, kids, next time you’re near a kiddie slide and considering mouth spelunking with your skin-covered love pole, think again. Just say no to reckless penile acrobatics. This message has been brought to you by the Society for Penile Injury. Your tumescence is our priority.
Wink, wink.

Damn, it’s been a long, trying two weeks for this sex addict. And the next two will be even longer. Rubbing one out in my bunk every night ain’t cutting it. I have
needs
, and aside from a couple hot make-out sessions, Shades hasn’t laid a hand on me in days. He’s become distant, and as a result, so have I.

But Eve has a birthday coming soon.

And Shades agreed to the Birthday Club terms like everyone else …

Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself again. The anticipation is slowly killing me. Especially in light of Shades’s recent turn of events.

In other news, my nose is much better, and we’re on our way to join the Get Your Rock Off tour, where we’ll meet Banging Betties, I hope sans the alien homewrecker child. But, I’m realistic. I know The Thing will be around somewhere, lurking in the shadows, waiting to launch an attack with a scream grenade or those annoying little coo things Jinx is so fond of. Even Toombs got a little googie-eyed when Eliza & Co. first crashed our party on the bus a couple weeks ago.

I swear they’ve all turned against me.

We passed a sign that said “Dallas CITY LIMIT” a few miles ago, and the landscape has changed from barren, rural flatlands to concrete and metal edifices. At least we’ll be onstage tonight. It’s been fourteen days since our farewell gig on the Just Breathe tour—damn, I miss those Aussies—and I’m itching to get in front of a crowd again.

You’d think touring would get old after a while. It does, to a degree, but when you’re away from it, even for a short time, The Rock calls you home. Always, The Rock.

We slip between two nondescript buses and roll to a stop behind the venue. A cotton candy pink behemoth on wheels sits by itself across the lot in a cordoned-off area. It sports a huge logo with twin guns interwoven between two back-to-back Bs on its side. I burp up foul, sulfurous gas and rub my stomach.

“Welcome to Dallas,” Freddie calls as he throws our beast into park and shuts down.

We rocker zombies rise from the dead, tumbling out of our bunks, stretching, hungry for brains.

Jillian pops up, perky as I’ve ever seen her. “Chop, chop, bitches. Let’s help the roadies unload so you can meet your new tour buddies.” The spring in her step is positively Tigger-worthy.

“Rah, fucking rah,” I grumble, though I would like to meet some of the other bands. The ones who aren’t Banging Betties.

We do as Jillian asks, hauling out our shit like good little worker bees—except for Shades, who gets a free pass because of his penis problem. Eve’s impending birthday materializes again as a gentle reminder that I’ll get relief soon enough, with or without Shades.

When the gear is offloaded, I start inside to grab a drink. Eliza and Shades’s devil spawn intercept me.

“Hey, hold up,” Eliza says. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot a couple weeks ago.” The alien wiggles, trying to lift its enormous head from her shoulder. I shrink back, stifling the threatening shiver. “Maybe we can start over.” She holds out her hand. I inspect it for drool, piss, or baby shit. Looks clean. “Eliza Guns.”

I bite down the curl banging at the door of my top lip and fake a smile. “Letty Dillinger.” I shake her hand with an extra firm grip.

She pulls the swaddled demonling forward and turns it around. “And this is Gabrielle.”

My gut clenches with an acidic burst that launches a wave of terror up my gullet. I swallow hard. This time the curl sneaks out. “Uh …” Disgusting. What the fuck is the use of this thing, anyway? It doesn’t talk. It doesn’t contribute anything to society. It just sits there, shitting its pants, barfing on things. Staring at me with Shades’s eyes. “Umm … hi …?” I tuck my hands behind me so I don’t accidentally touch it.

Thuds of heavy boots hammer down the bus steps. “Eliza,” Shades says. “How are … you?”

Her perfect white teeth light up the pavement, the air, the whole fucking world when she smiles. The tension in her shoulders melts away. Her stance loosens. She fucking
beams
at him. “I’m great. Glad you guys decided to join us.”

My gut churns again, but not at the subtle gibe. At the
glow
.

Oh shit. She still loves him.

But he doesn’t love her. He said he didn’t. And I believe him.

He
doesn’t
love her.

Right?

I turn to him. He isn’t fixated on her. He’s stuck on the baby. Another explosion erupts in my stomach. I hug myself to keep it from leaking out of an unsuspecting orifice.

“You want to hold her?” Eliza asks, leaning the shit machine closer for his inspection.

Don’t do it, Shades! You’ll get the mange!

He opens his arms.

My hopes crash.

The two of them engage in a clumsy dance of shuffling feet and awkward shoulder lifts to secure the delivery of this boyfriend thief dressed in little person’s clothes.

“Let her head rest in the crook of your arm,” Eliza directs. “Like this.” She shifts the thing upward and repositions it.

Shades doesn’t look uncomfortable. He looks positively mortified.

Join the club. I think I’m about to lose bladder control.

“You’re not going to break her, Todd.” Eliza laughs and eases back, stuffing her hands in her pockets as she admires her handiwork.

I get a good look at her body, and the wave of raging jealousy swells anew, battering my already bruised ego. This broad is smokin’ hot. She’s curvy in all the right places. Her plump, luscious tits are perfect for motorboating or Hawaiian muscle fucking. A nice round caboose brings up the rear. I imagine those long, slender legs sliding around Shades’s thighs as he bangs his Betty into oblivion.

Bitch.

“I’ve never held a baby before …”
Let alone my own
hangs in the air, unspoken. Shades readjusts, and the fear bleeds away as his eyes round with tender, adoring softness.

I swallow the bile climbing up my esophagus.

He just met this horrid creature mere days ago, and already, he loves her. How is this possible? And where does Letty fit into the New World Order of Fatherhood?

I settle a hand on my kicked-out hip and wait for him to remember me, but he seems to have selective amnesia.

“She’s got your eyes,” Eliza says softly as she leans in and caresses the baby’s cheek.

Shades stiffens. He shoots a glance at me and breaks free of the spell the witch put him under. With a slight grimace, he passes the wriggling thing back to its mother and dusts his hands off as if he touched something dirty.

Eliza’s gaze narrows. “I need some time to talk with you about Gabrielle. Alone.” Her tone cools as she slips a glance my way.

I empty my lungs in a great rush and fake another smile. She’s really playing the “alone” card? Fine. I pretend to be the accommodating girlfriend. “What better time than now? Shades, I’m sure the two of you have a
million
things to catch up on. I’ll just go and help the boys get the equipment ready.” Or something.

“We won’t be too long,” Eliza says.

“Take your time.” I do my best to keep my voice neutral.

He pleads silently for me to stay. I wander toward the venue instead. He can fight this battle alone. Not my problem.

Resisting the urge to kick every rock on the pavement between the bus and the door, I channel the anger into foot stomps and beat out a rhythm for a new song. It’ll be an anthem to The Rock—the beacon of truth and freedom everyone in the music world seems to have forgotten these days.

Banging Betties, especially. That stupid, popular song of theirs is about as rich as a meth-head hooker turning tricks outside the local Walmart at the end of the month before payday. “What the fuck ever happened to
music
?” I yell to the sky.

“New blood made it better,” a woman says behind me.

I stop and turn around. The lead singer of Banging Betties puffs on a cigarette, drops the butt, and crushes it under a five-inch pink platform shoe. I don’t buy the sweet, apple cheeks and freckles for a second.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” I mumble under my breath.

The chick walks toward me, real slow, like she’s scoping out the scene of a crime she plans to commit later on. “I hear you’re opening for us tonight.” She rakes her fake-eyelashed gaze over me with the silent scrape of fingernails down a chalkboard. “Guess you finally hit the big time.” She grins, her engineered-to-appear-
au naturel
look mocking me.

Oh hell no. I’m fixin’ to take off my jewelry, bitch. I crack my neck and reach for an earring.

“Letty. Good.” Jillian appears out of nowhere, the clacks of her sensible flats temporarily slapping the fury out of me. “I see you met Lizzie.” She avoids eye contact with the bitch.

Seriously? Jillian can NOT be scared of this little cunt.

“We haven’t been properly introduced.” I get up in Lizzie’s personal space and roll my shoulders. She sneers, totally ruining the good-girl façade, revealing the horned troll hiding beneath the safe bridge of soft pink lipstick, ample rouge, and natural red curls.

“You wanna do the honors,
Mom
?” I ask my manager.

“Lizzie Smith, meet Letty Dillinger.” Jillian takes half a step back as Lizzie and I stand toe to toe, breathing each other’s oxygen, feeding each other’s rage, testing each other’s limits. Jillian lowers a hand between us and gently pushes me away.

“Now, girls,” she says, facing me. She lifts a “behave yourself” brow and wills me to shut up.

I don’t. “Oh. So, you’re Rock ’n’ Roll’s messiah!” I snicker and point a finger at Lizzie. “The one who’s ‘gonna bring musical salvation to the unbelievers who haven’t found the light at the end of the pop metal tunnel.’ Isn’t that what you said in the
Rolling Stone
interview? Fuck, you’re a veritable Jesus Christ Superstar. With ovaries. Forgive me as I fangirl. What an
honor
to tour with you.” Sarcasm bleaches my words as I thrust my hand out for a shake.

Lizzie flaps up her fake lashes, narrowing harsh blue eyes on Jillian. “Are all of your clients this ungrateful for an opportunity to tour with the number-six band in the country?” She scrapes me with a disgusted scowl.

I retract my hand and ball it into a fist. Jillian covers it with a palm and squeezes, urging me away from Lizzie. “You’ll have to forgive Letty,” she says. “It’s been a long drive. She gets carsick. We’ll see you tonight.”

I snatch my arm back as Jillian leads me toward the bus. As soon as we’re out of earshot, I demand an explanation. “That bitch flat out insults me, and you kiss her ass? What the fuck is up with you, Jillian?”

She keeps her attention forward and her pace brisk. “Have you ever considered growing a little tact? You’d be amazed at how far it’ll get you.”

“No, I haven’t, and you never complained about my lack of it before.”

“You were never on a tour this big before. I suggest you cultivate some now, so when the stage lights come on tonight, your attitude will smell freshly douched, and the security on your sarcasm will be as tight as a virgin’s pussy. I expect to hear you quoting motherfucking Emily Post lines at the after party. Understand?”

I dig in my heels and grind all forward motion to a halt. “Whoa. Hold the fuck up.” I bust out my “
hell
no” finger and waggle it in a huge arc between us. “Did you hear what she said to me? She said we hit the big time because of
them
. Not our music. Not our passion. Not our dedication to our fans. But because they
deigned
to let us join their precious tour.”

Jillian concedes with a heavy exhale. “Letty, I get it. You’re upset about the baby—”

“The
baby
? This has nothing to do with the fucking
baby
. She insulted our
music
. She insulted The Rock!” How does Jillian not see the problem here?

She levels me with a disbelieving stare. “Killer Buzz Float is the new kid on the playground here. Banging Betties are just trying to maintain a pecking order. It’s all a bunch of hot air. Leave it alone. It’ll work itself out. Trust me.”

“I do trust you. That’s what bothers me. You, of all people, know where I’m coming from. You said you believed in us, in our music, yet you’re defending some twat you’ve never met before because she has more fans than we do?”

Jillian looks away.

My bullshit-o-meter senses a disruption in the Force. “Wait a minute.” I square my shoulders and face her head-on. “You
have
met her before, haven’t you?”

Her unguarded expression hardens like hot steel thrust into cold water. She doesn’t answer.

If it were a hit of acid, I’d be tripping balls. In the aforementioned
Rolling
Stone
interview, Lizzie Smith vaguely alluded to being a muff muncher. She and the drummer, Betsy or Beth—her name is some other variation on the “Betty” theme—used to have a thing.

“She’s a lesbian. And you got the hots for her!”

Jillian’s upper lip twitches. She grabs my arm and starts walking again. “Come on. You need to get ready for the show.”

Well, fuck me sideways with a spring-action ice cream scoop. Jillian has a crush on the number-two bitch on my Cunt Punt List.