Rush

Naked and on my side, I was being worked over by three curvaceous women in the middle of my hotel bed. I weighed the supersize tits of the babe in front of me, unsure if they were fake or real, while the chick who pressed into me from behind ran her manicured nails around my nipples.

Guys who tell you that isn’t a turn-on? They’re fucking lying.

Tension built inside me as the third woman worked my cock. She knew what she was doing. Determined, she kept at me as I lengthened in her hand, not stopping even when I was distracted by a phone call from my drummer, Jack Howard, about another argument between him and my bassist, Benton Kennedy. My bandmates had been at each other’s throats the entire week, ever since Benton had been busted having phone sex with Jack’s wife.

I didn’t get the constant competition between them. Maybe the rivalry arose from their different backgrounds. Jack had been raised in an abusive low-income home, while Ben had a privileged upbringing where his physical needs were indulged but his emotional needs were ignored.

But why poach another guy’s woman? There was plenty of unencumbered snatch on the road.

Groupies at the venues. Groupies on the bus. Groupies at the pre-show hotel parties like this one. A never-ending surplus of them. They threw themselves at us constantly. The last stop on the tour tonight? No exception.

Apparently noting my inattention, the groupie behind me pinched my nipples at the same time the one down low fisted my rod like a super-tight cunt.

Refocused, I felt my spine begin to tingle at the base. The chick crouched beside me shoved one of her basketball-sized globes into my mouth, and my body drew taut. Fake or real, tits were tits. I had a pair of fantasies to suck on, two pressed into my back, and two more shadowing my cock.

I swirled my tongue around the globe in my mouth and sucked its elongated nipple between my lips, then bit down. Fantasy Chick liked that a hell of a lot. She moaned, and the hand working my steel-hard cock sped up.

Finally, inevitably, it happened. Three bodacious babes, naked and writhing on my hotel bed with me? Yeah, that setup had the desired effect.

Despite a bump of coke and too much whiskey, I groaned low in my throat and let go. My spine stiffened as I released my load. Spurts of hot cum coated the pumping hand fastened around my cock.

“All right, darlin’,” I said as I sat up.

Over and done, from the heights of make-believe to the depths of reality I crashed. Disappointment awaited me just on the other side.

“That’s enough. Hands off my junk.”

As my dissatisfaction came roaring back, I didn’t bother pretending I was interested anymore. Because I was an asshole. But also because I knew what this was, and so did they. I got a reprieve from the hubris of my own headspace, and they got bragging rights that they had done it with Rush McMahon, Black Cat Records’ biggest rock star. An even exchange.

And now I wanted them gone. Their clashing fragrances filled the air, searing my nasal passages and making my gaze burn.

“Nothing personal,” I said as I carefully swept Fantasy Chick out of my way.

The down-low chick was already on the floor retrieving her clothes. The ringleader of the trio, she seemed well versed with the fuck ’em and leave ’em drill.

“Pick up your cells in the other room on your way out,” I said gruffly.

“What about our VIP passes?” the ringleader asked, her voice shrill and her calculating eyes narrowed.

“Those too.” I whipped the rumpled sheet off the bed and tucked it around my waist. “My manager will see that you’re taken care of. Go on. Move along.” Shuffling them toward the door without allowing them time to finish dressing, I explained. “I gotta get ready for the show.”

I clicked the door closed and turned to press my back against it, squeezing my eyes shut as the weariness of the nine-month-long tour slammed down on me. I was so fucking sick of it. Night after night, day after day, it was always the same. Show, long bus ride, hotel, chicks, booze, more chicks, more booze.

Be careful what you wish for, my boy. My father’s words of advice rattled around inside my skull as clearly as the day he’d spoken them. Dreams are great things—unless they’re misguided ones.

He thought mine were misguided. The way I felt today, I certainly couldn’t argue with his assessment.

Don’t, I warned myself. Don’t you fucking feel sorry for yourself. You’re Rush McMahon, on top of the world. Top of the charts. You busted your ass, and you made it. And now you have everything you ever wanted.

Yet, as I opened my eyes and glanced around the opulent suite, I knew I had nothing I really needed. Nothing that mattered. And no one in my life anymore who truly understood how I felt.

I raked my hand through my hair. Bullshit! Introspection like this was a waste of time. It didn’t change anything.

No, what was called for here was self-medication. At the proper dosage, it would suppress the brain’s tendency toward focusing on unproductive matters while keeping it coherent enough to be functional.

With that goal in mind, I tugged the sheet tighter around me and pushed away from the door just in time to escape the rising sound of the irritated voices on the other side. Groupies never responded favorably to being forced to sign nondisclosure agreements.

No signature? No cell phone then.

Yeah, I might feel like a loser at the moment, but I wasn’t a fool. No way in hell was I going to let some random chicks I’d just screwed screw me over with a viral video.

Returning to the center of the room, I paused at the glossy mahogany table and grabbed the half-full bottle of Jameson I’d abandoned earlier. I lifted it into the air in a toast.

“Here’s to you on your wedding day, darlin’. And here’s to me, myself, and I—and the fuckin’ success I am without you.”

Fuck, that sounded lame. Apparently, banging groupies hadn’t gotten my mind off anything.

Exchanging one rock star’s vice for another, I brought the bottle to my lips and knocked back an unhealthy swallow. My throat warmed, and the chill inside my chest receded.

A pleasant numbness began to settle into my limbs as I snagged my cell from the charging cradle. I loaded some of my music and hit PLAY, needing some fucking sound to drown out the silence.

Whiskey in hand, I headed toward the balcony on a mission for some perfume-free air. I threw open one of the French doors and slipped through the gap.

The outside speakers crackled as they picked up the first track. My guitar chords streaked like a blazing comet through the darkness. It was some kickass ax work, if I did say so myself. And I did. Hearing it brightened my gloom.

I set the bottle on a cushioned lounger—not that I wouldn’t hit it again or tag another chick later. I just had a better option for now.

With my own voice serenading me, I moved to the edge of the balcony to take in the view. Elbows propped on the iron railing, I surveyed the twinkling lights of LA from fifteen stories above.

Jack’s drums pounded the melancholy from my chest. Ben’s snaky bass groove further improved my mood. A breeze gently lifted the layers of hair at my brow, soothing me.

My lips curved. My twisted guts unraveled.

Liquor and drugs were only temporary fixes. Music was my preferred therapy. The lifeblood of my soul. The rhythm of my heart. My unshakable foundation.

Brenda had never fully understood that or me. She thought my career was some post-adolescent phase. Even if I hadn’t screwed up with her, she and I would have never worked.

On that depressing note of clarity, I finally noticed the cold of the stamped concrete seeping into the soles of my bare feet. The chill spread throughout my body, raising goose bumps on my skin.

Sighing, I turned away from the view. At the lounger, I bent and snagged my bottle before reentering the suite. On my way to the shower, I shook my head as an unmistakable ringtone stopped me in my tracks.

Shit. I walked back to my phone. My manager’s disapproving visage lit up the screen.

“Hello?” My gut tightened again as I braced for the inevitable lecture.

“You’re not dressed yet, are you?” Bradley Marshall asked, sounding as stick-up-his-ass irritated as he usually did lately.

“No, man.”

“Pre-show meet-and-greets are in ten minutes.”

“I know. Gotta shower first.”

“I bet you do. Hell, Rush, you probably need a hazmat unit to get clean after rolling around with that unholy trinity.

The blonde had some video of you from earlier. You were snorting coke off her tits.”

“Uh, well . . .”

“I deleted it.”

“Thanks.”

“Not smart.”

“I know, it’s just—”

Bradley sighed. “Yeah, I know. Today’s been rough for you. But you didn’t really think she was going to wait around forever, did you?”

“No, man. I lost her. I know the score.”

A beautiful, caring woman like Brenda? I had known it would only be a matter of time before some other guy came along who could give her what she wanted. Things I couldn’t or wouldn’t offer.

Fidelity. Reliability. A permanent home.

“You send her the flowers?” I asked. Red roses. Her favorite.

“Yeah, but I don’t think it was such a great idea. Those aren’t the kind of flowers you send somebody on their wedding day.”

“I had to do something.”

“You shoulda just called. Told her you’re sorry you screwed up with her. Wished her well. If Randy sees ’em and figures out who they’re from, it’ll just piss him off.”

“Too bad. My brother’s marrying my ex-fiancée.” I had been prepared for her to move on. It was who she’d moved on with that had blindsided me. “Doesn’t anyone get that I’m the injured party?”

Bradley snorted. “You stepped out on her.”

“We were on a break! And she’d withdrawn from me emotionally long before that.”

So did everyone else back home when I dropped the bomb that I was leaving college to pursue a career in the music business. Everyone except for Bradley.

“Not an excuse,” he said.

Bradley didn’t bullshit, just spewed the facts as he saw them. He always gave it to me straight, which was one of his best qualities. He had a lot of them—intelligence, loyalty, honesty. There were a lot of reasons he was my best friend, my only one these days. My bandmates didn’t count. We enabled one another’s dysfunctions.

“I know. I get it. I came clean with her and accepted the blame.”

I raked a hand through my hair, and my agitated movement stirred more noxious perfume. The fragrance stung my eyes again, making them tear up. It sure as shit wasn’t the sharp shards of regret.

I had made my bed. Gotten laid in it before I’d ended it with her. But I was good now. Things were better. I had moved on.

Why then did every step I’d taken since then feel like the biggest lie of all?