The interstate whizzes past. Rush passes a joint up from the back of the car. I take a toke and hold the smoke in my lungs, watching as we speed right past the exit for the record label. I blow the smoke out and hand the joint back to Rush. “Jag, man,” I say, “you just missed the exit, fucker.”

“No I didn’t,” he says.

“Are you that high? Exit 13 was right there.” I thumb behind us.

“I know that was Exit 13. I can read.” He laughs. “We’re making a pit stop before we go practice.”

I glance at the clock and groan. “Making a statement?”

“Yep,” he says. “New acts don’t call the shots.”

“That’s my man,” Rush says from the back, reaching up and slapping Jag on the shoulder.

Pax grunts behind me. “Where are we going?”

“The titty bar.”

“Woo-hoo! Titties!” Rush shouts, a large cloud of smoke wafting up to the front. The smoke is so thick in here it looks like there’s a fog machine going off.

“Man,” I say, “you remember the first time we went to a strip club?”

“Oh, yeah, how could we forget?” Jag says. “Paxton, you remember, don’t you?”

“Fuck you,” Pax says.

Rush laughs so hard he snorts, then farts. “The Showboat in Savannah, man those strippers in the back room would do some crazy-ass shit. Pax, your face when that girl squirted the water out and it hit you in the face –”

“It got in my eye.”

“Yeah, and then you had the clap in your eye from it. Your eye was all swollen and red and weeping yellow shit.” We all laugh because that would only happen to Pax.

“First STD,” Rush cackles, “and you were still a virgin.”

“Fuck off,” Pax mumbles.

Jag speeds up before veering across three lanes of traffic, cars honking. We barrel around the exit and within minutes, we’re parked and crawling out of the car.

As soon as I stand up, the pot hits me. Hard. My head goes all dizzy and my heart races. “Man, that weed… ”

Rush laughs. “Some crazy strand called Green Crack or some shit.”

“I swear to god,” Pax says, trying to gain his balance, “if that’s some more gank-ass shit laced with embalming fluid.”

Rush sniffs and adjusts his dick. “Nah, this crack-head looked super trustworthy.”

“You bought this from some random dealer?” I ask. “What happened to Twitch?”

“I think he’s in jail or something.”

“Yeah, he’s in jail,” Jag says.

We manage to stumble up the stairs to the club, and it’s not until I’m right here that I glance up and look at the neon pink sign that glows: Pussy Club. “Where the fuck are we?” I ask.

Jag points to the blinking light. “The Pussy Club.”

Rush and Pax snicker. I look around the parking lot. There are only a few cars here, and one’s an old Ford pickup with the hood smashed in. “Jag, what the hell, man? This place is… ”

“Low end,” he says, “yeah, but it was the only strip club open at noon. Give me a break.”

I shake my head.

The wooden door creaks when he pulls it open, and the smell of stale cigarettes and beer suffocates me when I walk in. There’s a middle-aged man with a comb over and a gut that’s pouring over his metal belt buckle leaned against the wall. I guess this is supposed to be the bouncer.

Rush laughs silently as he thumbs toward the guy.

“Twenty a head,” the man says.

“What? Twenty?” Rush sighs, shoving his hand in his pocket. “This place smells like piss and open ass, old man, you do know that?”

“Yeah, I’m aware.” He glances up and I notice a bulge in his lip. He grabs an empty Mountain Dew bottle, places it to his lips, and spits. The brown liquid oozes down the inside of the bottle. “And there’s titties in there,” the guy says. “So it’s 20 a head.”

Rush grumbles something else before he pulls his wallet out and hands the guy a hundred-dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

The doors to the actual club swing open and we file in. In the middle of the room is one stage with metal fold out chairs surrounding it. There’s a naked girl swinging around a pole. Rush looks over his shoulder with a shit-eating grin. “Pussy Club,” he chuckles.

I take a seat to the left of the stage and Pax sits next to me. “I worry about his mental health sometimes,” he says in my ear.

I nod in agreement. “God, I hope he can’t reproduce, could you imagine a little Rush running around and shitting its pants?”

We both shrug, because it wouldn’t be much different than the adult Rush.

The song ends and the lights dim. Some old man in the corner of the room claps and whistles. The girl bends over, bleached asshole gleaming, and collects the few bucks that have been thrown on the stage before she totters off in her nine-inch heels.

A waitress approaches us, tits out, nipples hard. The second we all glance over at her, she stops dead in her tracks. She opens her mouth to say something, then stops, and before any of us can say a word, Rush is out of his chair and grabbing her by the hand. “I know what you’re thinking,” he says, “and yes, yes we are Pandemic Sorrow, and you have a lovely pair of titties right there.” His eyes drop to her chest and he smiles.

She gives Rush a once-over as a slow smile inches over her lips.

I reach out and grab him, pulling him down to me. “Do not try and fuck that stripper.”

Jag leans in. “I mean, you can get her to give you a blowjob, but I wouldn’t park my shit in her bat cave.”

Rush glances back at her. “Man, I’m not going to fuck her. I’m too high and that’s too much work.” He turns back to face her. “Just bring us a bottle of whisky. That should do for a minute or so.”

Giggling, she winks and spins around, heading back toward the bar.

We sit in front of the stage, drinking, watching girl after girl dance. Rush and Jag are throwing money at them like cheap-fucking-confetti, Pax has gone up to the VIP room with some redhead. And I’m fucking bored. Having lived the life I’ve lived for the past few years— one-night stands, having girls line up for a fuck and suck— well, after that shit a little strip club doesn’t exactly do much for a man’s libido.

Pax parks the car in the studio lot. He was the least shitfaced of us all. Jag calls him a cunt before shoving open the door and staggering out. And there, waiting on the sidewalk, are the paparazzi. Jag glances over his shoulder at me and smirks before making a show of tossing his glasses over his face.

“Are you high, Jagger?” One of the men shout over their camera before the flash flickers. Jag flips them the bird. “Of course I’m fucking high,” he slurs.

Jesus… I attempt to walk a straight line, and Rush takes off in a sprint, jumping on top of a parked car and shouting before whipping his dick out. The group of paparazzi quickly direct their attention to Rush and his dick he’s now slinging around like a helicopter ready to crash and burn. Pax runs over and gives him a shove, and Rush falls off the car.

Jag and I slip inside the studio lobby. “I can’t believe this shit,” Jag huffs under his breath as we step into the elevator, and I’m just trying to put one foot in front of the other. Right now, walking is a struggle.

“Man, it’ll be fine,” I say as the door slides shut. I press a button and fall against the wall.

He glares at me. “No, collaborations mean the label thinks you’re turning to shit.”

“What the hell are you talking about. The fucking Weeknd collaborates with everyone!”

Jag wrinkles his brow, snarling his lip in disgust. “He’s a pop bitch, Stone. A pop bitch.”

The elevator door dings open and we step off. Rush and Pax are getting off the elevator across the hallway, and Rush is, of course, adjusting his dick. We head down the hallway to James’ office and find the door wide open.

“Now what the fuck do you want us to do?” Jag says, stopping in the doorway.

James glances up from his desk. “Two hours late!”

I lean against the doorway because it’s too much effort to stand straight. Jag glances at me and smirks. “Well, we had shit to do. Hope the little princess doesn’t mind.”

James grins. “You guys are such a joy to work with.” He rolls his eyes as he pushes his chair away from the massive mahogany desk and stands. “You guys need to practice before we record, so you need to get your act together for two weeks.”

“What if she sounds like shit?” I ask.

“She doesn’t.” James walks through the door and down the hallway, motioning for us to follow him.

“No girl’s going to be able to sing our shit,” Jag shouts. James stops in the middle of the hall and spins around to face us, his eye twitching as he steps toward Jag. He’s silently fuming, just staring at Jag. All Jag does is laugh and pat James on his saggy cheek. “Fine,” Jag says, “but from now on, she comes to my house.”

James looks blankly at him. “I’m not in a mood for this shit. Trust me, I’ve been arguing with Henry all morning about this. It’s a bad move, the styles aren’t going to mix and the song will tank, but what the hell do I know? It’s not like I’ve given Henry ten multi-platinum bands over the last few years. And frankly, I don’t want the liability of you twats around this girl.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say.

“You’re all nasty assholes and throwing anything resembling a woman in the mix of you is bad news if you ask me.” He glances at Rush. “Don’t fuck her.”

Rush makes a crisscross motion over his crotch. “Cross my cock and hope to die, shoot the clap in my eye.”

James grumbles beneath his breath and rolls his eyes. “And don’t you fuck her either!” He points at me.

“Okay, fine…”

“Why didn’t you tell Jag not to fuck her?” Rush asks.

“What’s the point, he fucks everything.” He turns back around and storms down the hall towards the studio. Rush shoves Pax into the wall. “Notice he didn’t tell you not to fuck her. He knows you don’t have a shot because you’re just the drummer.”

We all laugh– except Pax, he just flips us the bird.

James throws the door to the recording room open. “Well, the guys are here, Phoenix.”

“What a stupid name,” Rush mumbles under his breath.

“Greeeeeat…” I hear a girl say.

“Jesus, you know how these new acts are,” Rush says, “can you imagine how all over our dicks this one will be since it’s a chick. Uhhh…” he groans, “all up on our junk, I’m telling you.”

Rush and Jag step into the room first, then me and Pax.

Leaned against the wall is a girl with curves out the ass. She’s plucking at the strings of a black guitar that’s slung over her chest. My gaze falls to the waist of the tight, black jeans hung low enough on her hips that I can see the top of a tattoo peeping out. All I can hear is James saying not to fuck her and my dick pulses, wanting to stand to attention because this is absolutely the kind of girl I would fuck. Over and over.

“Phoenix,” James says, “this is Jag, Rush, Stone, and Pax.”

She stares at us while messing with the strings on her guitar. Rush steps into the room and immediately trips over his feet and stumbles into the wall. “Are you guys high?” she asks.

“Do you have a vagina?” Rush says.

“Oh my god,” Phoenix looks at James and shakes her head. “I can’t do this.”

“Great!” Jag claps his hand. “Great news because we don’t want to do this shit either.”

James swipes his hand over his mouth. “It would be easier to get Ru Paul to come out of drag than make this work...” he sighs. “No choice guys, sorry. The label’s made their decision.”

Jag grunts. “Well, from now on we practice at my house.”

“I’m not going to his house,” she says.

“Then you aren’t fucking practicing with us,” Jag says.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were the CEO of Deviant…” Phoenix lets her guitar fall to her hips and she crosses her arms over her chest.

“Look, I’m not driving down here to practice. Do you really want me coked out of my head driving through LA every day?”

“Hey,” she smiles, “here’s a thought, why don’t you just not get high?”

Jag glances at me and thumbs at her. “Is she serious?”

“Okay,” James sighs, “what about every other practice at his house?”

“Nope.” She glances up, and locks eyes with Jag. I see a little flash of defiance flicker through her green eyes, and I know this is going to be a shit show.

“Well,” Jag says, dragging his hands through his messy hair, “too fucking bad. You wanna sing with us, you’re gonna have to come to my house to practice.”

She laughs before strumming over her guitar once. “I don’t think you have much of a choice, really.”

Jag glances back at me, then at Rush and James. “Is she for-fucking- real?”

“Honey, I’m very for-fucking-real.” There’s such a condescending tone in her voice, and I can literally see the rage heating my brother’s face.

“Shit,” James mumbles, shaking his head. “Look, you two divas work this shit out between you, I can’t– ”

“Who the hell is she to make any demands?” Jag groans. “She’s nobody.”

Phoenix laughs. “And if you ask some people, you’re nobody, too.”

“What a bitch,” Rush groans and tosses his head back. Pax just stumbles behind his drum set and takes a seat.

“Fuck this.” Jag moves past me and reaches for the door.

Rush follows him. “Yeah, fuck this shit.”

“Where do you think you’re going?” James asks.

“Home. I’m not dealing with this shit.”

“Oh,” James blocks the doorway, “you will deal with it.” He leans in close to Jag. “Henry Edwards, Jag. Henry Edwards.”

“Oh my god,” Phoenix groans, “look, fine. If you’re that much of a whiny little shit, I’ll come to your house and practice. Better?” I glance over Jag’s shoulder and watch her push off from the wall, rolling her eyes. “Jesus, fucking rock stars…”

James sighs, opens the door, and leaves.

Jag turns around and he and that girl stare at each other. The tension in the room is mounting like a fucking volcano. I’m not sure what this girl’s deal is because she’s already got some major entitlement going on. Most new acts are humble and borderline annoying with their politeness, this chick…fuck, she already has blood on her fangs, and I know Jag’s going to make her life hell. He’ll go out of his way to offend her and make her quit, then Henry Edwards is going to be all over our asses… “Damn it, James,” I mumble.

Rush taps me on the back. I glance over my shoulder as he subtly lifts one brow before cramming his finger inside his nose. “Hey, Phoenix,” he says, “like your shirt.” He yanks his finger out of his nose when she glances at him, then holds that same hand out to her. “Oh, and nice to meet you.”

She snarls. “You’re disgusting.”

“Thanks.”

She sighs and walks over to the microphone, adjusting it for her height. God, her ass is just out there and… I adjust the soft-long growing in my jeans.

“I’m sorry, little girl,” Jag says. “That’s my microphone.”

She cocks a brow just before the stand drops with a bam. “Look, fuckface,” she says, “I’ve been warned about you.”

Jag’s shoulders go tense, and I move in front of him. “Ah, don’t pay attention to those fuckwads,” I say with my charming smile. I step toward her and hold out my hand. “I’m Stone.”

Her face remains stone-cold and she ever so slightly rolls her eyes. “And I’m not fucking you, no matter how nice you pretend to be.”

“Oh, burn, baby,” Rush laughs.

I glare at her, my jaw ticking. This woman is a bitch. A hot, curvy, entitled bitch. And for whatever reason, it literally makes my dick so hard I have to adjust myself. Again. She glances down at my swelling crotch and sighs. “Good to know all the wear and tear hasn’t affected its functionality yet.”

“The sooner we get this done,” Pax says, “the sooner we can get the hell outta here.”

“Sounds fucking good,” I mumble.

“Oh, now you’re going to be a dick, too?” Phoenix says. “And to think, had I giggled at you and batted my eyes like I’d go all spread eagle, ass in the air for you, you could have pretended to be nice for another,” she glances at her watch, “what’s the average time from meet and greet to penetration? Thirty minutes?” She sighs and clasp her hand over her heart, feigning a pouty face. “I’m heart broken, truly.”

“Shit,” Rush whispers in my ear. “She’s a major cunt. Fucking makes my dick hard.”

I shove him away and I grab my guitar. Pax’s drumsticks softly tap over the snare drum, and I strum out the first few notes to the song. Right when Jag’s supposed to belt out those first few notes, that girl opens her mouth and this raspy, edgy sound bounces from the walls, the perfection in her tone causing the hair on my arms to raise. She goes right into the first line, and Jag doesn’t make a fucking sound. I glance over at him and he’s staring at her. It’s not until she starts on the second verse that he joins in, and when the song is done, all he says is, “Not bad,” and leaves the room.

I watch her, the way her chest is falling ragged, the way her cheeks flush pink. She’s chewing on the inside of her lip. She’s nervous as shit, but playing it off so damn well that I find myself smiling a little. She’s hot. She’s volatile. She’s got a fucking voice. Dear god, this is going to be absolute torture.