8
Benjamin won’t wring a neck today.
“This would be a lot easier if you’d give it to me straight,” I state into my phone in the back of the car. “Has he—or has he not—posted the apology we sent him?”
“Yes. And also no.”
“He cannot have done both. If he altered the apology in any way, then it was not the one we crafted for him.”
“He made a revision or two. Y-Yes, sir.”
I shut my eyes and pinch my nose with a couple fingers. “Tell me the revisions.”
“Before the bit about his actions being f-foolish …” Rebekah’s voice falters. She swallows hard, then resumes. “He suggested that if any of his loyal f-f-fans thought he was out of line with what he said, then h-he …” She sighs, then clears her throat. “H-he … um.”
“Then he …?”
“He … would like to formally request that they … I quote … ‘go suck his parakeet’s dicky-licky’. Err, a’hem … sorry: ‘Dick-a-lick’. I read that wrong.”
I massage my forehead. Fucking pop stars. “And that whole bit about his actions being foolish … did he ‘revise’ that, too?”
“He cut it completely from the apology, sir.”
My eyes flash. “That was the apology.” I keep my cool. I always do, no matter what. “Get with Jessica and the others. Tell him the ‘Jersey boy’ needs serious damage control. It’s very important we act fast. I can’t be there for three more hours, as I have to meet another client for lunch, but I’ll write a response in the next ten, then shoot it through Mimi and Vick.”
“Do you want to speak to Haw—s-sorry—the Jersey boy?”
“No. I’ll rip off his dick and make him suck his own if I do,” I answer coolly, helping myself to a drink from the minibar. “Get Patrick to speak to our Jersey boy Hawk. Pat’s from Jersey, he’ll get through to the punk. We need him to delete the post. Maybe we come at this from another angle. Dick-a-lick. He used a silly word, we can pass it off as his unfortunate sense of humor that gets the best of him. We can’t use the off-his-meds thing again because, like meds, the effect of that excuse has long worn off. Plus, we don’t want to make light of those with real mental illnesses. He mentioned his parakeet as well. Might want to follow any trending activity on animal rights activists, avian activists, and the like.”
“Got it. Noted all that.”
“Tweet out about his last leg of the tour, how many sold-out shows he has, et cetera. Oh, how about we rerun the story of that orphan kid he brought up on the stage with him during his show in San Diego. That’ll warm hearts. Flood out the negative, every outlet, and replace it with good.”
“Will do. Anything else, sir?”
“Yeah. Make sure my office is stocked with hard liquor by the time I’m in.” I hang up my phone with one curt tap, then toss it onto the long, empty seat by my side as I kick back the shot of brandy, which doesn’t so much as stir under the smooth, skillful driving of my faithful chauffeur.
I’m not completely focused right now and haven’t been the whole damned weekend. It’s unfortunate timing, considering that every celebrity my company represents seems to have had some sort of crisis or another this weekend of all weekends. One client, an athlete from Michigan, slipped and said a gay slur during a radio interview. Another client punched a tooth out of a persistent super-fan with a camera. Then there’s another client, a beautiful Broadway actress in New York, who was caught on camera cussing out a restaurant manager for putting onions in her soup. The video went viral Saturday night—seven million views and quickly counting—and now she’s the Onion Wench.
And despite all of this chaos, hysteria, and social media hell swarming around me, my mind is stuck on just one thing:
Trevor.
Every single minute of my Saturday was spent trying not to think about that sexy boy from Friday night. But every time I sat down to eat, my mind wandered to the way his plush lips tasted. Every time I sit in the back of this car—like I’m doing now—my hands inevitably rest in my crotch, and by just shutting my eyes, my hands turn into his, and he’s massaging me the way I wanted him to that night.
Yeah, I did lots of “self-massaging” this weekend, pretending it was his hands.
Self-massaging with a happy ending, every time.
I glance over at the dividing window between my driver Ian and I. It’s shut. There’s still thirty minutes before we arrive.
That’s thirty minutes of relief I’m gonna need right now.
I sink into my seat and bring my hands to the button of my pants. With a flick and then a little pull, my pants are opened and my bulging underwear, revealed. Just that little act gives me such needed relief today, I sigh with pleasure.
My hand slides up the inside of my thigh, closer, closer.
It reaches the prized destination. Squeeze.
“Mmm,” I moan.
A minute or two of pure, firm, unrelenting rubbing ensues. My cock is fast to respond, pushing against the thin fabric of my boxer briefs and tenting them with desperation.
What the hell is it about this Trevor kid? One thought of him, and my cock turns into a marble column. I keep seeing the look on his face, over and over, when I finally got his shirt off and made him sigh into a kiss. He was like food in my hands, and all I needed to do was lap him right up.
I pull my cock out and start to stroke. Up every inch, down every inch. Even dry, my hand runs smoothly enough to bring me so much satisfaction that within seconds, my breaths grow short.
I went back to that damned nightclub Saturday and Sunday. He wasn’t there either night, and I waited for hours.
Keep stroking me, I tell Trevor, pretending my hand is his. Do it nice and slow. Make me want it. Make me fuckin’ crazy.
I was approached endlessly both nights. Women. Men. Boys. Girls. Everyone from one dim wall of the thumping nightclub to the other. And every single one of them got shot down.
I was convinced he would walk through that door looking for me. I was certain of it. There’s no way he felt nothing that night. I cast thunder through that boy, and I could see it in his lit-up eyes.
He wanted me.
And now that I’ve had a taste, I want more. Not just any pretty guy in a club is going to do it for me.
I’m getting close, I warn imaginary Trevor. You’re going so slow, it’s torturing me. I’m close and you won’t put me over the edge. Speed up.
Trevor looks down at me, his eyes darkened with a sexy mean streak.
Oh, I see. Now you think you’re the one in charge. Such a stubborn boy …
That stubbornness is what turned me on and frustrated me at the same time. He’s not like anyone I’ve ever met at a club before. This Trevor kid, he has a mind of his own. He questions the world. Even his eyes poured with self-awareness and yearning.
Maybe I see him as a challenge. Maybe I’m ready to put my thumb on him, squish down his self-important attitude, and watch with amusement as he tries to fight to resist me.
Jerk me faster. Jerk me harder. I need to come. I have to come.
Trevor smirks down at me, stroking me so slowly that I tense and flex every muscle in my body, desperate for him to take me over the edge.
“We’ve arrived, sir.”
The sound of Ian’s voice jerks me out of my fantasy so hard, I sucker punch myself in the face with the back of my wrist.
“Thank you, Ian,” I state while unceremoniously stuffing my tender, stiff cock back into its ruthless, microfiber confines. I close my eyes as the racing of my heart subsides, cursing Trevor for trapping me so expertly in this position. If he wasn’t so cute and doe eyed, I’d think he planned this whole evil scheme on me.
Because now, I am going to have to go to that club every damned night this week, torturing myself until I see his face again. And this time, I won’t let him run away.