"EXACTLY HOW EXPLICIT does she expect it to be?" I queried Marsha from my chair across the table. After a full day of filming in the Motor City, we had been too exhausted to go out and were eating dinner together at the cozy upscale restaurant inside our new swanky hotel instead.
The two hour plane flight from Chicago to Detroit had been subdued, at least for me. I had popped a couple of Tylenol, kicked back in my seat and adjusted my sunglasses. Not the rose colored ones I had worn the night before. Mirrored ones that shielded my red rimmed eyes from outside scrutiny. Meanwhile, Marsha and the crew had worked. The edited video from Chicago had been sent to New York. But they had been dissatisfied. I’d overheard Marsha and the others talking, though they tried to keep their voices low. Apparently Smith hadn’t been happy about the crew staying out in the hall while I had gone inside the hotel room with King.
"Very. TV-MA. She wants realism. She wants skin. She says the viewers will want to see as much as they can of rock stars like King and that they need to see enough to be able to imagine themselves in your place."
Our food arrived, and I pondered what Marsha had shared as we dug in. With my tequila hangover I hadn’t had very much of an appetite until now. I scarfed every bit of my scallops, half of my besties’ baked potato, and we each polished off crème brûlée for dessert. We were sipping coffee and talking about the sights we had seen of Detroit when a disturbance at the hostess stand halted our conversation.
"Holy shit!" Marsha vocalized the words that leapt into my mind. I wished I had the dessert menu to hide behind. Instead, I shielded my face with my hand and shrank down in my seat.
"My PA made the reservation. Surely, you can find me a table. Don’t you know who I am?" my former boyfriend complained.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Carl. I'm a big fan of Heavy Metal Enthusiasts."
"Call me Ivan," he said in his seductive voice.
"Yes, Ivan. Just give me moment." The star struck hostess glanced our way. "I think we have one that’s about to come open."
I jerked when Ivan's gaze hit mine. Shit. Shit. Shit, I thought as he sauntered our way looking pleased as hell to see me. The feeling was not mutual.
"Babe." He leaned down, covered my hand with his own and kissed my cheek. My stomach fluttered, the scallops jostling like boats on a choppy sea. Reeling, I blinked at him as he turned to acknowledge Marsha. I had never counted on seeing him again. A range of emotions ran through me, from the superficial leftover attraction to the deeper stuff like the pain of his betrayal and the regret I harbored about falling for him in the first place.
"You must be here for the concert." I managed an even tone as he borrowed a chair from another table and scooted it too close beside me.
He nodded and picked up my spoon shoveling the last bite of my dessert into his own mouth.
"Where's the band?"
"Partying in our room."
"What hotel are you staying at?" I held my breath.
"Right here. The Westin."
Our hotel. I expelled a breath. Marsha's eyes met mine.
He shrugged. "It's the closest one to the venue." He gave me that look through the thick fringe of his lashes, the smoldering one, the one that used to get me all mushy. But that was before the Doggie Girl and before I had discovered that he had gotten my bestie knocked up and then failed to come to her aid when she had needed him. "So how about it, Rock Fuck Club girl? I'll sign the disclosure. I'll..."
"Fuck no." My snarled denial had patrons at nearly every table glancing our way. I slid my hand out from under his making a big show of wiping off his touch with my napkin. "You're an asshole, Ivan. I know everything about what happened with Marsha. I can’t believe you would treat her that way. I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on earth." I shook with rage. "So keep your hands off of my food. And get away from me."
He stood, his eyes no longer smoldering, but glinting with anger. "You think you’re hot shit because of all of the attention you've been getting."
"I am hot as shit, Ivan. Clue in.” I glared at him. “Haven’t you seen the videos and the men I’ve fucked? Every single one is a bigger deal than you." I saw him flinch. He had always been personally affronted by the success of others. "I ought to thank you really. I finally found out what I had been missing. Once you accused me of being boring. Told me I needed to be spontaneous, to expand my horizons. Guess you got your wish, didn’t you?"
"THANKS," I TOLD Marsha when she handed me the drink easy on the Coke and heavy on the Crown. "But I could have gotten that myself."
"You just stand there and look hot-as-shit." She grinned.
I play shoved her.
"You shot Ivan down in flames. You rock RFC chick."
“You rock harder, bestie." I smiled.
“Yeah, I do. Don’t I?” She preened and spun in a circle on the red carpet of the Fillmore lobby. Carla had done her makeup and straightened her hair with the flat iron. The black dress she wore perfectly complemented the elegant historic venue. The shiny fabric molded to her figure in a way that grabbed the attention of several nearby fans. She ignored the guys watching her and narrowed her gaze on me. I took a sip through the tiny bar straw. "It's good to see you smile again,” she decided.
“It’s been a while,” I allowed.
Since we left Boston. But she didn’t point that out. Thankfully.
“Have you talked to Sky today?” she asked.
I nodded. I had called to check on her status daily, always telling myself that I wasn’t straining to hear his voice in the background. Foregoing the straw, I took a big gulp of the cocktail.
“Well, how is she doing?”
“Looking forward to being discharged. Her blood glucose has stabilized. She’s taking oral medication for now. She'll have to check her sugars regularly and comply with a strict diet. If she does, she might not have to do the insulin injections." I gave my bestie a look that said it’s your turn to be cross-examined. "How about Rocky? Y'all seemed to have something hot. You talked to him at all?"
"Rocky and I had a lot of chemistry.” She narrowed her eyes. She knew I was trying to deflect her. “But it wasn’t going to go anywhere. He has interests that don’t align with mine."
"I know the feeling." I thought of Lucky and me, and King and whoever he couldn’t put in his rearview mirror. I sighed re-determined to take the drummer’s advice about not looking backward anymore.
"Your cell's vibrating," Marsha informed me.
"Yeah," I could feel it through my purse strap. I had forgotten to switch the sound back on after the plane.
"Don’t you think you should answer it?"
"I’m not in the mood for another lecture from Suzanne Smith."
"The exec is busting your balls, too?"
"Absolutely." I nodded. “She reiterated that our viewers need to believe the passion, believe that I’m calling the shots and also that I’m in control when I walk away." I turned my concern filled eyes to my bestie.
"That wasn’t how things looked with King."
"Probably because it wasn’t that way at all." It had been more like a commiserative fuck for each of us. I pulled in a deep breath. "But that’s how it is going to be from here on out."
She squeezed my hand reassuringly. My cell started up again. I unlatched my clutch and dug it out. My stomach fluttered when I saw Sky’s caller ID.
"Hey Sky. Is everything ok?"
"It’s not Sky, Angel." The tummy flutter became a full aerial rotation.
"Lucky," I breathed, wanting to cry at the same time that I wanted to luxuriate in the rich velvety sound of his voice.
"You've been busy since you left Boston." His tone was biting.
Had he even seen my statement? If he had, did it even matter?
"You should know that JGB dropped the assault charges against me."
"That’s great." My voice was barely a whisper.
Lucky didn’t say anything for a long moment. I could hear the heavy sound of a bass beat thumping in the background and voices, lots of feminine ones.
"Your charges against him had a lot to do with the quick dismissal I’m sure."
I didn’t reply. My chest seized as I processed the sound of kissing and a woman cooing his name.
"Not now, love. We’ll have a go after the show. Right now I’m on the phone."
He had moved on. Pain sliced through me. I knew he would, but it hurt way more than I wanted to admit.
Right choice, Raven, I told myself. Not to linger with him in Boston. If I would have stayed I would have ended up feeling like I was right now only worse when we had inevitably gone our separate ways. "You've met someone." My tone was brittle.
"No, just a fuck lined up for later. One of your converts. They’ve even got t-shirts. The front says ‘Rock Fuck Club’. The backs say ‘Making rock ‘n’ roll better one fuck at a time’. Have you seen them?"
I had. They were all over the RFC Facebook page and Instagram.
"Your little movement’s catching on," he filled in for my silence, slurring his words, I imagined a result of too much spiced rum. "They want to be just like their leader. Fuck ‘em and leave ‘em." His tone turned snide. "Like you and Rayne. Like you and the Tempest drummer. Like you and me."
"Never like you and me," I disagreed before I could think better of what I revealed by that clarification. Shouldn't I just let him believe what he wanted to believe? But I knew the answer to that. I couldn’t because his opinion mattered. "Didn’t you see my statement?" I asked, hating the needy thread in my voice.
"I did." A long silence. "You’ve said a lot of things, Raven. It’s difficult to know what’s fiction or truth with you. The closest I think I ever got was when we weren’t talking and I had my cock buried deep inside you."
I HAD A LOT more Crown after Lucky hung up on me. I needed it not to imagine his hands and his lips on someone else and his cock inside them. I was sorely tempted to search for something stronger, but I had made a commitment to myself. I rejected that path. I might be going nowhere on this RFC journey, but I wasn’t going down that other road ever again.
"Your lipstick’s smudged." Carla's eyes held concern as she used a chubby pencil to line my lips again. She glanced over at Marsha as she finished. "Her eyes are unfocused."
"Yeah, she’s been hitting the alcohol pretty hard tonight. But I cut her off."
"I'll get her a Monster drink from the vending machine outside."
"Those taste awful." I made a face. Besides, I had worked pretty hard to achieve my current state of haziness.
As Carla left the public restroom, Marsha's eyes met mine in the mirror. "You need to pull it together, bestie. It’s not going to be pretty if you barf on Quentin.”
"I won’t." I frowned. "We still have a lot of time before his performance.” And my own. My buzz would be totally worn off by then. More’s the pity. I would be going with the techno rapper, Rock Club fuck number four, completely sober.
"QUENTIN WAS GREAT, wasn’t he?" I asked Marsha as we waited for the film crew to call us into the after-party room.
"What gave it away? Everyone with their hands in the air and bouncing to the beat or the hundreds of people lined up at the stage for the meet and greet with him afterward?”
"Any of the above." I straightened the lapels of my cobalt blue kimono so it showed just the right amount of cleavage. Sober, I’d decided to compartmentalize. I figured rock stars had a long legacy of keeping their tour persona separate from the rest of their lives. Surely, that method could work for me. The woman I had felt like with Lucky didn’t have to go. She would just have to survive separate from all of the RFC stuff. What happened at the after-party stayed at the after-party. "I’m ready.” I tightened the belt on my robe, tuning out the dissenting inner voice that insisted what I had resolved to do wouldn’t be possible. “Let’s do this."
I entered the party room. By now the writhing bodies, the lecherous stares, the hedonistic debauchery didn’t faze me. The lights lowered on all of it as I lifted my hands over my head. Ernie had put a spot on me. I began a variation of one of Quentin's own songs about love being there if you reached for it, if you wanted it badly enough, called 'Wounds'. The silk swished against my upper thighs. As I swayed, the gaps in the robe revealed tantalizing views of my lace bralette and the matching panties. The handsome techno rapper and A-ok, his equally good looking keyboard mixologist were a year younger than me. I knew from the bios that they liked the ladies as much as King, but also that they had seen and done it all on their rapid rise to fame. If it were possible, they were even more jaded than I was. I wasn’t really sure if either one of them would be interested in hooking up with me. But I hoped my homage to their lyrics and lack of clothing might get me on the short list of their options for the evening.
It didn’t. Neither approached me after my routine. They had several women with even less clothing hanging on them already and they seemed unaware of me as I mixed and mingled with members of the other band.
"Maybe they don’t want the publicity," Marsha decided after glancing over at the rapper and his keyboardist.
"Maybe," I allowed, noticing that Ignacio had turned off his camera. "Or maybe they just aren’t interested." So far RFC had been pretty easy. It provided a big boost to my damaged ego to draw the attention of guys like Rayne and King. Not that it really meant anything. I got that. I knew the difference between real and make believe even if a certain lead singer didn’t view our night together as significant anymore. More disconcerting thoughts rushed inward. I could feel the tension in the film crew growing as the crowd in the after-party room thinned out. Quentin and A-ok were gone. I did a sweep of the room looking for possible second tier candidates. The bassist for the Thomas band lifted his beer to me. But he wasn't alone on the ratty old couch where he was sprawled, and he wasn’t on my list. His bio revealed he was a sadist into some serious bondage play. I wasn’t averse to trying low key consensual stuff, a Fifty Shades type scene, being restrained while someone as sexy as Christian Grey took control and had their wicked way with me. Yes, please. But I knew that I wouldn’t be turned on by being whipped. I politely returned the bassist’s smile but I turned away and found myself face to face with Quentin.
"Can I talk to you a minute?” The techno rapper raked a hand through his blond hair as he glanced at my crew. "Cameras off?"
"Sure." I turned to Ignacio to ask, but he had already complied with Quentin’s request.
"What's up?” I tried not to fidget as he ran his gaze over me. Was he interested now? His darkened eyes made it seem likely.
"I'll sign your consent papers. So will A-ok.” He licked his lips. “If you’re available for a threesome."
"Alright." I gulped. RFC fuck number four and five. Both in one night. I hadn’t considered a MMF ménage, but then again wasn’t RFC supposed to be about me branching out? Having sex with two guys at once certainly wasn’t vanilla.
"Great." He flashed a dimpled smile, his light green eyes sparkling. He seemed younger than twenty-one, especially with that boyish grin on his face.
"But my crew has to film." My cheeks warmed. "My boss at WMO wants to see a lot of skin. Short of porn. But you know..." I trailed off and my bestie filled in.
"Sexy times above the waist, no genitalia, easy on the thrusting.”
"Sure. I get it. My manager already talked things over with your boss. We wanted permission to borrow footage of your skit. We really liked it by the way." He touched my arm, and I shivered. His skin was warm. It seeped past the thin silk covering my chill bumped flesh. "We want to montage it with some of our concert stuff and whatever happens tonight at our suite. We’ll put it together with our version of ‘Wounds’. We’ll market you, and you’ll market us."
“Cool.” I raised a brow giving him an impressed look. He was savvy. No wonder he and A-ok had risen in popularity so fast.
CREW IN TOW, cameras on and already filming, I entered the rap duo’s penthouse suite. Low crystal lamp light accented the rich emeralds and deep golds of the opulent decor. Quentin wore only jeans. A-ok was down to his black boxers. The keyboardist gave me an appreciative head to toe scan. A thrill shot through me when both men fastened their hot hungry gazes on me.
Each had lean sculpted bodies, but A-ok was dark to Quentin's light with his short dark chocolate hair, dreamy milk chocolate eyes and creamy nougat skin. Together they moved yin and yang, each taking one of my hands and drawing me further into the living room.
Releasing my fingers and clasping me firmly by my upper arms, Quentin spun me to face his friend. The mixologist’s hands went directly to my breasts. Through the silk robe, he lifted, shaped and strummed the tips taut with his thumbs while Quentin threaded his hands into my hair, tilted my head up to him and pressed his lips to mine. The singer’s chest was a hard and unyielding wall behind me while the keyboardist’s talented fingers worked their magic on my tits. My pulse thundered, and my nipples tightened as both men did their thing to me at the same time.
I think the two had the logistics of how things were going to go down well planned out. The rapper moved his mouth persuasively while the mixologist unbelted my robe. Warm hands whispered softly over my skin as the silk glided off my shoulders. They moved in concert together like they did on stage. One the poignant lyrics, the other the pounding force of the beat, they took turns with me coaxing, seducing and ratcheting up the heat. Caress by caress. Kiss by kiss. I didn’t have time to feel nervous, nor did I have time to voice the request for lip kissing to be off limits like I had done with King. Not that I thought that kind of restriction would go over well given the directive from the VP to spice things up.
So I let my inhibitions go and gave myself permission to experience being the sole focus of two different but very handsome men. I imagined I was a sexy siren in a film noir as the crew videotaped us. A-ok slowly glided the straps of the bralette off my shoulders while Quentin slipped his wet tongue between my lips. A hot rush of heat tingled my scalp and tiptoed down my spine as the mixologist traced his soft fingers over my bared skin. He caressed the column of my neck, the curvy sides and gentle slopes of my breasts but avoided my nipples. They jutted to points against the web of lace that covered them begging for attention. When the lead singer deepened the kiss, the keyboardist lowered the bralette straps confining my arms to my sides, yanking down the cups and exposing my breasts to the cool air. A-ok pinched my nipples. Pleasure pierced my core. I moaned into Quentin's mouth.
"Fuck she's perfect,” the mixologist said approvingly as I arched my tits into his hands.
Quentin released my mouth and lifted his head. "She tastes sweet, too. You’ve got to try her. Let’s switch places. C’mon, pretty girl. Give A-ok your mouth while I give those lovely tits the attention they deserve."
The moment I complied, the mixologist captured my lips. My eyes fluttered closed. I trembled as one man kissed me deep and sweet while the other licked a wet path from one erect nipple tipped breast to the other. When the lead singer fastened his warm mouth around one and sucked it hard, lust blazed a hot path through me making my pulse roar and my clit throb so hard that my knees went weak.
"You ready for us, pretty girl?" The mixologist asked, breaking the kiss to study my face.
"She’s ready,” Quentin replied for me as I parted my lips for air and leaned heavily into him. "Cameras off and everyone out.”
I didn’t notice Marsha and the others leaving because the lead singer was kissing me again the urgent thrusts of his tongue into my mouth seeming to coincide with each beat of my eager pulse. Behind me, his keyboardist cupped one of my tits and flicked the aching tip with his thumb while he covered my pussy with his hand and strummed my wet swollen clit to the same rhythm.
I moaned. My body went electric. Tremors rocked me. I fought the surge. I was so close to coming.
"Her panties are soaked."
"Take them off then," Quentin suggested, his mouth lifting and hovering a breath away from my lips. He traced my mouth with the tip of his tongue before plunging it inside again. My lips began to tingle from the abrasion of his stubble and the relentless onslaught of his marauding kisses. A-ok hooked his fingers in the sides of my underwear. Slowly gliding them down my hips and thighs to my ankles, he tapped each one to get me to step out so he could remove them. Afterward, he blew warm gusts across my skin as he straightened. The back of my calves, my thighs, my ass, my spine, my flesh crackled everywhere the mixologist’s humid breath caressed me. When he pressed the front of his chiseled body into the back of mine, I realized that the boxers were gone. He was naked. His skin felt hot like fire. He thrust his hard cock that was even hotter between my butt cheeks.
"You ever taken two men at once?" A-ok asked, returning to strumming my breasts and pussy making me gasp and pant while Quentin undressed in front of us.
"No."
"Ever had a cock in your ass?" The lead singer rolled a condom on his very erect, very well formed length.
Eyes growing wide, I shook my head.
"No worries." The keyboardist swiped his sure fingers through my wetness. "We'll take turns. She’s already trembling. Her clit is swollen and tight. She’s about to go off. You have a go first since you’re suited up." Quentin's face was drawn, his eyes dark pools of lust. He reached for me, plunging both his hands into my hair and refastening his mouth to mine. A-ok still behind me, I was sandwiched between two hard male bodies when Quentin slid his cock inside me. The mixologist’s fingers flexed on my breasts as the lead singer fucked my mouth with his tongue and my cunt with his cock. My release rushed up for me. There was no build up. It was just suddenly there, an inescapable wave lifting me to the crest. I had to rip my mouth from the lead singer to breathe. I gasped and shuddered as it rolled though me. Quentin slammed his length inside me one last time and groaned his own release into my neck.
Then we started all over again. This time with A-ok's cock inside me.