CHAPTER FOUR: Cain

I was sitting in the back of the limo checking my email when the reporter from Rolling Stone who had interviewed me the day before called Drew’s cell with a follow-up question. It was nearly nine and we were headed downtown to the Rusty Nail for the battle of the bands, or as Drew had dubbed it: the battle of the bads.

I listened as Drew talked to the reporter. “No, I’m afraid Mr. Bohannon is indisposed at the moment,” he said, adding in a long sigh for effect. “If you’d like to give me the question, I’ll… Ah, okay… I’ll pass that question along. No, I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of a Cain Bohannon fuck list… That’s right… Okay, thanks for calling.”

“Let me guess what that call was about,” I said, simultaneously shaking my head and rolling my eyes.

“Your fucking fuck list, of course,” he said, picking up his glass of champagne from the minibar set into the back of the driver’s seat. He lifted the glass to his lips and sighed into it.

“Honestly, I wish I’d never leaked that little goodie to that gorgeous reporter from TMZ. I swear, I was just trying to get into his pants. I had no idea he’d make such a big deal of it online. That’s a blow job that’s come back to haunt me.”

“One of many, I would suppose,” I huffed. “And I’m the one who’s constantly haunted by your inability to keep your mouth shut.”

“Oh. My. God. How many times must I apologize?” he asked dramatically.

I held up my phone, where the list was stored, and wiggled it at him. “Do you know that every interview I do, the first question they ask is, ‘Cain, do you really have a fuck list?’ From Barbara Walters to Ryan Seacrest to Charlie Rose. It’s the first fucking question they ask.”

“I know,” he said, exhaling the words.

“Well, did you know that Donald Trump asked me about the list the last time we met? I’m writing the guy a hundred-thousand-dollar campaign contribution check and all he wants to know is, do I really have a fuck list.”

“Did you show it to him?” Drew asked, making his “no way” face.

“Of course I didn’t show it to him,” I said with a dismissive wave.

Drew gave me a devilish grin with the glass at his lips. “He would shit if he knew his wife and daughter were on the list.”

“Probably so.” I smiled and tucked my phone inside my jacket. “Then again, knowing Donald as I do, he’d probably be even more pissed off if they weren’t.

Some days I wished I’d never started the fuck list, because I got so tired of being asked about its existence. The fuck list had started innocently enough; I mean, as innocently as a list of women I wanted to fuck could start.

I was a young record exec busting my ass to make a name for myself in the cutthroat music world. I wanted to start my own label, and was willing to fight, fuck, and claw my way to the top.

It helped that I was six foot two, muscular, and blessed with good looks and a long cock. Word got around pretty quickly among the female higher-ups in the business that I was willing to fuck for favors, and the bitches just started lining up.

One night, as I had a Riza Records VP bent over her desk, banging her from behind, she told me I had been on her fuck list for months, ahead of Justin Bieber but behind John Mayer, for Pete’s sake. I didn’t even know what a fuck list was then. When she explained that her fuck list was the list of young guys in the business she wanted to fuck, I started a list of my own.

Only my list had far more stringent rules.

To get on my fuck list, the girl had to already be famous to some degree so she wasn’t just fucking me to get ahead.

Or just fucking me because I was more famous than she was.

Or because she was a gold digger looking for handouts.

And she had to be a fucking fifteen on a scale of one to ten.

I didn’t give a shit how famous a bitch was if she wasn’t smoking hot.

I wasn’t gonna shove my cock into anything less than prime USDA, TMZ-level-famous, smoking-hot pussy.

So, the Cain Bohannon fuck list was born.

It started with the top ten girls I wanted to fuck most.

Then quickly grew to twenty, thirty, forty…

The list that was on my phone now held one hundred names.

The list evolved as conquests were made or new women hit my radar, which happened pretty often these days.

Famous bitches were always asking if they were on the fuck list. “If you are on the list, can I fuck you right now?” had become my standard answer. More often than not, we’d end up fucking like little rabbits in the back of a limo or in the bathroom at a red-carpet event.

If I said sorry, they’re not on the list, they’d act all pouty and ask what they had to do to get on the list.

It was like the old adage: If you have to ask the price, you can’t afford it. Only it’s: If you have to ask how to get on the list, you’re probably never going to be on it.

“What about hot girls who are not famous enough to be on your list?” a reporter once asked, even though I’d refused to confirm the existence of the list. He was asking the question based on rumors that I was not going to confirm or deny.

I didn’t answer the question.

If I had, I would have told him that I only fucked smoking hot, famous bitches. I might take a blow job or a hand job from a hot chick like Faleen, who was one of the most beautiful women on the planet but sadly un-famous.

Sometimes I thought about making her famous just so I could fuck her. Could she be famous for giving me morning wake-up head? I wondered. But there were no loopholes when it came to the fuck list. Cain Bohannon’s famous cock only went into equally famous pussy.

End of story. Period.

“We’re here,” Drew announced as the limo pulled up to the curb in front of the Rusty Nail. The sidewalk all up and down the block was packed with people waiting to get inside. They’d probably have a long wait, because I was sure the club had been packed full for hours. That was one thing about these battles of the bads—I mean, bands: They usually brought the millennials out in droves. And the millennials, as annoying as they could be, were my bread and butter.

Drew looked at me and flexed his perfectly manicured eyebrows. “Ready to be entertained?”

“Remind me to fire everyone in talent acquisition on Monday,” I said with a sigh. I waited for the driver to open the door. Then I took a deep breath and forced myself out of the car.